Table For One

(And Other Reasons Why I Rule)

by Emily Levant

Dining out alone -

Thoughts? Apprehensions?  Reservations (for one)?

First of all, let's break down the thought process:
1. What will I do whilst waiting for my food?
2. What will the other diners think?
3. What will I think of myself?
4. What happens when I poop my pants because I'm so embarrassed to be eating out alone?
5. Does this place do half orders?

And a response:
1. Eavesdrop, people watch, text, reflect on the awesomeness of your life.
2. If you order the bone marrow (which I did), they will think you're awesome, and want to talk to you, and buy your dinner, and ask you questions about your life.  They will be impressed by your gumption, your chutzpah, your moxie, and your ability to discover a neighborhood foodie gem like Seven Hills when you are staying in a Joe's Crab Shack-laden tourist trap like Fisherman's Wharf.
3. Once the maitre'd tells you that you have pretty eyes and sends you a gratis glass of wine, that he swears he "couldn't see you NOT order with your entree but isn't available by the glass", and the woman in the trio next to you starts up with her boyfriend/husband for paying too much attention to you, and the food is so delicious that you'd RATHER be alone, you honestly will not give a flying fuck that there isn't some douchebag sitting across from you making polite/grating conversation about how Jay Cutler doesn't deserve all the flack he is getting on Facebook.
I may be getting slightly ahead of myself here (although this all really did happen and I am on kind of a contact self-esteem high right now), but, fair reader(s), dining out alone, whether it be Friday's or French Laundry, is tantamount to riding a roller coaster: scare the shit out of yourself while standing in line, and then subsequently enjoy yourself immensely.
4. If you do in fact poop your pants, let it be because you ordered an extra side of prune sauce, and not out of nervousness. That's all I have to say about that (although prune sauce was not an option tonight and my La Perlas are spick'n'span),
5. Who the fuck cares about half orders?  Indulge. Let loose. Walk home (up and down the relentless Stairmaster that is San Francisco) with your fly undone.  You're all alone - which, let's look at the bright side here, means no one to answer to when you let Beethoven's 9th Belch loose over the bay.

From Applebee's to Alinea, let solo ring.