Eating alone.

Recently, at my new cyberhome, Paris By Mouth, a contributor posed a question about eating at “Comfortable Establishments for Dining Alone.”

 

I realize there’s a gender issue here and a cultural one as well. Women, who are alone on business, or pleasure for that matter, often have difficulties eating alone; they’re looked down on, hit upon, groped or ogled, ignored by wait-folk, etc. And in places like New York, where tables are turned like Dutch windmills on steroids, one lost cover is a lost margin of profit.

 

I’ve been eating and traveling alone for over 50 years, not only because I’m anti- or un-social, which is a paradox for a psychiatrist or food critic who has many friends, but because I (gasp) enjoy eating and traveling alone.

 

Why? Let me count the ways, that’s Browning BTW, the distaff one, probably in the longrun a far better writer than Bobbie.
1. One can concentrate on the food without having to make nice, pretend one cares about things other than the sauce or sorbet, and focus.
2. You can growl at others making noise.
3. You can eat at your, not your co-eater or waitperson’s pace, and
4. Writing on your microscopic pad, recalling, finishing Figaro, all can occur without being impolite.

However, there’s the downside:
1. You only taste what you ordered, unless of course you whimper when a dish goes by and the sensitive waitperson, a former psychologist, asks if he brings you a portion, you’ll stop crying.
2. You are on your own with no one to correct your crazy impressions of dishes, be they positive or negative, as my cherished wife of 50 years, yclept here Colette, is able to do with great grace and divine diplomacy.
3. You’re done in shorter time than dining with another and find yourself, if you’re headed for a movie, somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle between the 14.00 and 16.00 showings.

 

OK, so I’m often asked “Where can I eat alone?” Well, my answer is, despite the predatory priests, politicians and evangelists who are looking to take advantage of you, wherever you want. I mean, get a grip.

 

Do we not eat in San Francisco, which is ripe for a 8.0 Earthquake; do we not try the occasional raw oyster or steak tartare with Brother E. Coli buried deep within, do we not forget to wash fruit with chlorine or ammonia or Purell, or whatever we're supposed to be using this week?

I used to call restos in Paris and lie that I was reserving for two and then on entering apologize that my wife/dining partner/whoever was delayed by a strike – in Paris a sure thing excuse. Now I proudly say – I’m reserving for one, I’m alone, the tone of my voice implying “You gotta problem with that.”

 

And, because I always/usually arrive a bit early, I’m seated at the primo aka window table.

Comfortable? You bet.

Where to eat alone:
L'Antre Amis

9, rue Bouchut in the 15th, (Metro: Sevres-Lecourbe)
T: 01.45.67.15.65
Closed weekends
Lunch menu = 32 E