Reservation For One

_{^{By Bynne Spencer}}

Three square feet of copper countertop, smooth and much abused, miscellaneous cutlery trodden under an open book wedged partway under the breadplate. Each turn of the page brushes the water relegated to a dangerous edge, but the wineglass keeps a regal radius absent of clutter. Bootsoles barely scrape the floor, these skyscraper barstools were not designed for someone so short. The world is crafted with men in mind. 

Some of my best thinking has been done at those cramped bar seats. Usually with a knife in hand when it really would have been helpful to have a pen, and usually gone after a few glasses of wine and by the time I get home. Rarely do those grand ideas and unoriginal epiphanies remain as anything other than a faint glow and the understanding that something is working itself out in the back of my mind. Blame it on the wine maybe- always good and always at an appropriate ABV- or maybe just on the high of being at a restaurant with no one and all the world for company. There is something about sitting at a bar in a restaurant that makes me introspective. Possibly because there is no one to talk to. But where else can you eat a communal meal with strangers while also having a solitary experience? Either everyone sits in companionable silence, studiously ignoring each other, or by the end of the night the people sitting nearest to you are your new fast friends. There is a duality to eating alone at a restaurant. The bartender or waiter takes your order, chats, asks about preferences and dietary needs, pours your drinks. You say this is what I want, this is what I need. You only have to think about what you want to eat or drink. You are seen as a person, and your needs are met. To be seen is to be known. There is a powerful autonomy to ordering and eating just for yourself, especially for those whose lives revolve around taking care of others. 

At the same time, as a person dining alone, you are ignored by most of the other guests. You are anonymous. Just a person, part of the social atmosphere but not responsible for creating it. Dining alone out can be a strange thing, especially as a woman. There are looks from the moment you walk in to the moment you leave. At a new restaurant as a solo diner there is always a chance of a chilly reception. Some hosts are loath to give away a table to one person when it could seat two. Their eyes linger on the door, scanning for the inevitable second body. The other set of silverware is whisked away quickly, we pretend it was never there. Discreet looks from the other diners-groups, couples, friends, families- as they size up the situation. A forgotten anniversary? Stood up? But there is no forgetful partner or up-standing as I make clear by ordering without hesitation whatever I want. You cannot be stood up if you are not waiting on anyone. 

But refuge can be found at that communal copper table, the bar. It can be hard to feel justified in taking up a table that could sit two, but a bar seat is meant for the solo diner. It is easier to stake a claim on a barstool and countertop, to say, I am allowed to be here and take up this space. The best seat is one with privacy–facing the wall of curated bottles and glasses– but also lets you surreptitiously observe the rest of the guests. Corner seats or a curved bar is especially good for this. I always bring an activity to the bar, a book or sketchbook, but simply looking around at a room or strangers eating together is equally entertaining. Perched on a stool overlooking the room, the crowd of people become a crowd of characters. I try to make guesses about their lives and personalities. I watch the tables out of the corner of my eye, and make suppositions about what brought them out tonight that probably say more about my character than theirs. Maybe this table is a reunion of college friends. That one is colleagues on a business trip. Those are children visiting aging parents. Old friends out for their usual catch-up. A first date. A one hundredth date. 

Some people are bound to look at you back. There are looks from men who are also there alone, which to return is often to invite harassment, be drawn into a lecture on the perfect golf swing, or at the very least be reminded that it is perfectly normal for him to be there steadily drinking alone. Oh, but the looks from other women. Older women with their friends or daughters mostly, from across the room or bar that make other strangers obsolete. We exchange smiles over the top of menus, I settle in and the room becomes abstracted into noise and color. What do these women see when they look at me alone?, I wonder. 

Sometimes I think they don’t see me sitting with a glass of pinot in hand, but themselves. They sit where I sit, younger maybe, or older. A firebrand student out on the town, or a young mother who never had the time or freedom from daily duties to have her needs waited on. A woman scraping by, to whom this meal at a fairly nice restaurant would have been the luxury or luxuries, or someone who does not want to cook in an empty apartment? I pretend to read my book while dissecting the notes of the wine and watch two women- clearly longtime friends- discuss the people in their lives out of the corner of my eye. I think about who I will be in forty years. In a way, it is not them I see but two versions of myself. The food arrives before us at the same time, and we settle down to the serious business of eating. 

Just as I have had some of the best ideas sitting alone at a chef’s counter or bar, I have had some of my most treasured conversations. I often find myself going out, alone, for the company. There is a special blurring of social rules in those congenial settings. The proximity (literally elbows to ribs in some places), the precious anonymity of a conversation with strangers about beat remolada, or ‘what are you reading?’, or ‘did you make your scarf? It is a lovely color’. We exchange thoughts about the wine, the weather, the city and its changes, our woesome and wonderful lives. We toe into each other’s counter space like lingering in the doorways of our worlds. “I only ordered one thing- I’m a slow eater and had a big lunch,” I explained when one leaned over to talk about the tapas selections. “The next time I see you with your book, we’ll split some things” she said conspiratorially as I stood up to leave. I would not turn her down for the world. Who was a stranger before is a stranger still, I know precious little about the women sitting two seats down except what we happened to share, but I feel like Alice looking through the keyhole. What a thing, to remember that the more we learn the less we know. My unlooked for dining companions become not just reflections of myself, but real people. 

When the meal is done I linger, trying to soak up this good feeling like the last bit of sauce with a piece of bread. I swirl the last drop of sherry in the glass, and watch the legs slide slowly down the bulb. The wine was made all the sweeter for being sent to me from a new friend and old acquaintance who saw me sit down as she got up to go. 

I walk home in blue twilight. The streets are silent, and I have left conversation behind me. I am full, nourished in more ways than one, as my bright ideas slip away and leave behind an afterimage of contentment and inspiration. By the time I get home I won’t remember an epiphany I had at dinner. Oh well. I am sure I will be back.