I was invited to speak at a conference in Barcelona in the late 1990s. At the end of a very long, hard day, my genial Spanish feminist hosts invited me to dinner, telling me they would meet me in the hotel lobby at 10.30 p.m. I almost went into some sort of traumatic shock. I was aware of the Catalonian reputation for eating late – sometimes as late as midnight, at weekends – but I was having none of it.
I have been told by waiters that a bottle of wine is ‘too much for a lady on her own’
I bade my colleagues farewell and found myself a gorgeous little tapas bar that was open at 7.30 p.m. I ate bread with deep green olive oil, deep red tomato and roasted garlic, octopus salad with waxy potatoes, jamon croquettes, and a plate of marinated anchovies. As I sipped my ice-cold, bone-dry sherry I felt relieved to be alone. And the next morning, I was well-rested and free from indigestion. Lone dining was my newly discovered joy. I was hooked.
I’m currently enjoying a week with the legendary Harriet on a Greek island and would seriously want for nothing more, except for a bit of sunshine (we flew away from a dreadful British summer just before the heatwave, and landed into a massive week-long thunderstorm here, but who could’ve predicted that?)
Despite the dreadful weather we are having great fun reading and deciding which restaurant serves the best taramasalata (is it the one with the rougher texture; do we downgrade it if it’s too pink; and is that just a little too much lemon?)
Breakfast is thick yoghurt with floral-scented honey, eaten as we watch the clouds gather. For lunch, we might have a salad and a small slice of spanakopita, but for dinner, we go all out. At a local taverna, we choose an excellent bottle of Robola and dive into the daily specials. A great time is had as we chat away, laughing, re-telling stories of other holidays marred by bad weather.
But on my return to London, once the post has been opened and the washing done I will be venturing out for a solo dinner. My holiday companion is my favourite person in the world, but eating out alone is one of my top de-stressers.
Every couple of weeks I book a table or a seat at the bar, and from there I order a Negroni, slowly peruse the menu, and order exactly what I fancy, without considering anyone else’s needs. When dining with others, I am perhaps uncharacteristically yielding. I don’t order dishes I know they don’t like; in case anyone fancies a taste. I consult on the wine and often find myself saying ‘fine’ to the suggestion of a red you could serve in slices despite me loathing it. And, if no one else wants dessert and I do, I concede.
Then there is the issue of eating and talking – two activities that are perhaps best not mixed, especially for those who seem incapable of chewing, swallowing, and then partaking in conversation. And I am never late for my evening with myself, unlike those friends notorious for leaving others sitting there, becoming hungry enough to eat the tablecloth, until they eventually rush in 30 minutes late, claiming that the Northern Line is down again.
When it’s just me, I put in my earbuds, choose a decent podcast, and settle into a couple of hours of people watching and taking everything at my own pace. When working overseas, investigating horror stories for newspapers in high-stress environments, I often find myself feeling torn after a long day: do I offer to take my fixer/interviewees out for dinner? Or do I make my excuses and then find a really cosy restaurant I’m unlikely to be spotted in? I think we both know the answer.
But it doesn’t always come easy. I have been told by waiters that a bottle of wine is ‘too much for a lady on her own’. Occasionally other diners have approached, asking if I would like to join them – their faces displaying the patronising sympathy that smug couples often excel at. When I mention my penchant for a table for one I am often quizzed as though I have professed a liking for Gary Glitter tribute bands. I assume these judgemental wazzocks would not raise an eyebrow if I said I liked visiting museums or the cinema alone.
Meanwhile, at the Hotel Royal Cafe, one of those places that try to make customers feel grateful to be allowed in the door, the minimum spend has increased – potentially resulting in solo diners being charged a minimum of £330. Nevertheless, I am clearly a trailblazer. Recent research shows that Google searches for ‘solo dining’ increased by 357 per cent in the 12 months from June last year. When this stat was raised by Richard Madeley on Good Morning Britain, some plonker from The Apprentice called Ryan-Mark Parsons described those choosing to eat alone as ‘pathetic losers’. I reckon any dining companion of this charmer will soon wish they had opted for a table for one.
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