Why I Love Dining Out Alone

“Why are you unaccompanied? You have no companion today?,” asked the server at one of my favourite tavernas in Athens. The taverna was perfectly unfussy, and a block away from my temporary apartment, where I was on a self-imposed retreat to finish my second novel. I joke that I used this taverna as my personal canteen (the apartment being unequipped for cooking). The staff begrudgingly became familiar with me, and the way this particular server phrased his question was amusing, hearkening back to Jane Austen: An unaccompanied woman is one without a chaperone. It didn’t faze me. “I was too impatient,” I told him. “I’m hungry now.” 

I’ve built up an enviable amount of moxie from years of going to bars and restaurants alone, and I am an unflappable solo diner. It is like a muscle, one I suggest everyone exercise, because you never know when hunger will strike.

I’ve spent much of my life travelling by myself, living alone in one place or another. Dining solo did not start out intentionally, but it was necessary. Depending on what city I was in, I’d often find myself between engagements and needing a bite. Even now, at home in Toronto, it’s rare I muster enough enthusiasm to cook something intricate just for myself. In addition to the convenience, going out for dinner alone is like staying at a hotel: you do it to be coddled when the mundanity of being a working adult becomes too much. Sometimes all I want is a temporary pause from chores like making my own bed, and it’s not like I’ll ever make steak tartare at home. Sometimes I simply want someone else to fill my glass. 

The privilege of dining alone is being able to order whatever I feel like without concessions. When I dine with friends, the food always plays second or third fiddle to the conversation and drinks. I often get a little unsteady, realizing that in the heat of a story I forgot to eat my share of an entrée and had a disproportionate number of cocktails. (Those sharing-style restaurants really get you when it’s four friends versus five small plates!) 

Solo dining is the only time I can concentrate on savouring the food at my own pace, and that freedom outweighs any discomfort I have with being seen alone. In the beginning I felt a bit awkward—it was like not knowing where to place your hands when posing for a photo. Now, I’ll have two martinis to give me the right kind of tilt that feels luxurious on my own, and I’ll eat until I’m full. I love to over-order. I think of Daniel Day-Lewis in Phantom Thread ordering an ample breakfast for one and falling in love with the woman waiting on his table: “with a poached egg that is not too runny…and jam—but not strawberry.”

I like the differing levels of alarm that come with asking for a table for myself. In New York and Toronto, it’s easier to get by, though restaurants sometimes bristle at giving up a table for a single cover. In Berlin, once, the host was so perplexed when I came in alone at 10 p.m. that he periodically stopped by the table and asked if I was alright. (It’s hard to know the cultural precedent for dining alone.) By the end of the meal, the kitchen staff sent over a cherry tart as a gift. I must give the impression that a woman dining alone is seeking refuge from her life, and that is not completely untrue.

But I won’t seek refuge by scrolling on my phone at the table—to me, that’s a faux pas. And I rarely have the foresight to have a book in tow. I also rarely need the distraction: It can feel restorative to pause and assess, to really pay attention to the world around you. Dining alone is an opportunity to be a spy, to take in the scene as an observer, much like Maeve Brennan did in “Long-Winded Lady,” her New Yorker column that chronicled New York social life in the 1940s. She often pretended to read in order to overhear conversations. Like Brennan, the most fun I ever have is eating alone next to a couple on a date, especially when it is clear they are early into knowing each other. Documenting one such date, Brennan writes of a man explaining to his guest, “All right, if you must have a definition, I am a Socialist interested in lust.” There is a rich social text to discover at almost every restaurant, every night of the week.

If taking up a table feels too advanced for those embarking on solo dining, I recommend heading to the bar. Nothing feels more glamorous than sitting at that high countertop with my kitten heels locked onto the footrest, popping a french fry into my mouth. It’s the perfect place to open you up to encounters, or to be left alone, as you wish. Though I have only ever seen them in dim, post-8-p.m. light, there are at least five bartenders who are up to date with my personal life as though they are a best friend on speed dial. Behind their curmudgeonly façade, I know they enjoy my company during their shift. 

Ultimately, why do I need to make plans with someone in order to be out in the world? I want to see and be seen—at my leisure. There are times on my way home from a party when I dip into a place for a snack, slowly recalibrating myself for bedtime after the whir of a social gathering. It’s become a habit, and I urge people to try it. It’s worth the practice, because if you can dine alone confidently, what can’t you do?