Going Solo by Clarissa Hyman
The Novotel, Sheffield now offers solo diners a personal TV screen. Is eating out alone the way of the future? Have all the old prejudices disappeared? Restaurant writer Clarissa Hyman explores the inner world of the lone female diner.
There was a time when the words “a table for one, please” would bring on instant hyperventilation, intestinal origami and a paralysing sense of humiliation, terror and loss of dignity rolled into one fat panic-wrapped package labelled SAD. That’s assuming, as a lone woman diner, you can even make it across the threshold. There is only so long you can linger on the pavement studying the menu du jour before someone calls the police; at a certain point you either have to skitter away or open the bloody door. And, of course, the moment you take a deep breath and go hurtling over your own version of the Ypres trenches, then you invariably slide to a halt just as the maitre d’ is seating two people who’ve sneaked to the desk minutes BEFORE YOU. “So, that’s a booking for three?” “No, just the two of us.” Three heads swivel around to inspect you much as you’d look at dogshit on your Manolos.
Eating alone, especially as a woman, certainly heightens the senses. The sense of self-consciousness, for example. Or the realisation you’d rather be anywhere else than in a situation where the rest of the world thinks you’re either on the make or some kind of drug-fuelled exhibitionist trip. Your rational mind might understand that no one in the restaurant gives a flying fart you’re on your ownio, but every nerve ending is telling you all those happy couples and multiple merrymakers are staring at you with pity, curiosity or amusement. Loser!
 It’s all right for the boys, the world is at ease with lone male diners, no-one doubts their integrity or sexual intent. Do they ever experience the condescending horror of being escorted like a high security prisoner to the table next to the flapping kitchen door? No, I don’t think so. Nor are they exiled to the gulag of the furthest, darkest cubicle (so you become both literally and psychologically invisible). Not for them the unpleasant proximity to the his’n hers, where you sit like a Soviet concierge counting the number of bathroom trips; a fragrant location where the very people your heart sinks at spotting across the room will invariably pass by, blink, stop and cry, “but what are you doing here?” They don’t have to add ALL ALONE. It’s tattooed on your forehead.
And all restaurants, good or bad, do something unutterably depressing: they CLEAR AWAY THE REDUNDANT TABLE SETTING or even the vacant chair opposite. I suppose it’s something they teach in catering college. Maybe it’s meant to be courteous, but all it does is remove the little fig leaf of fantasy that, hey, maybe someone might actually be joining me. Or even wish to join me. There is something so heartbreaking about that stretch of starched virginal cloth, naked advertisement of your single status. Sob. Or maybe I’m just bitter because no one has ever sent over a glass of champers with a leering wink for me to get indignant about.
The wish to make a principled stand and assert the right of all diners, whatever the gender, to eat what, how, when and where they wish without social shame is a fine idea. Few women, however, can carry that off beyond lunchtime. After 6pm, it’s witching hour and the choice is still largely to go home, get a takeaway, eat noodles Wagamama-style or order room service. Even your own hotel dining room can be a test of character strength.
Of course, things have got better. There’s more choice of wine by the glass, and the independent female diner (it’s a lifestyle choice!) is not the pariah she once was, although I suspect both sexes would rather pot-roast their own heads than eat solo on Saturday night.
I’m not saying it’s always a breeze, yet unilateral eating has its positive points, even if it is a pleasure that comes with practice. You have to learn, for example, how to rein back the inner chowhound: without conversation to pace a meal, the impulse is to race through it like a greedy bunny. Result: a gulf suddenly yawns between courses, and you end up shuffling the last piece of broccoli around the plate like a road-sweeper at dawn.
It helps, of course, to have a reason to dine solo other than that of simple hunger but it has unsuspected attractions, such as eavesdropping. I once overheard a riveting monologue that began, “I’ve cooked and cleaned for you, slept with you…..and what do you go and do….?” Eat your heart out Alan Bennett. On your own, you can study the restaurant in action behind your book or paper (essential prop!), think your thoughts and concentrate on the food without annoying chatter or tiresome argument.
It would be weird and untrue, however, to say I always preferred eating alone, but sometimes needs must and the general rule of thumb, culled from my years of solo dining, is the better the restaurant, the better the single woman diner will be treated. The best make you feel as if you were a friend of the owner’s, if not the owner yourself. Self-confidence, however phony, is all – walk in like a sad sack and get treated like one.
I was once on an inspection trip to the Midlands, eating alone at an overpriced, lacklustre restaurant. There was only one other diner, another woman. The manager seated us diametrically across the room from each other. We nodded politely; I studied the menu and scribbled a few notes. I looked up and saw she was also jotting something down. I noticed we ordered a mirror image meal. Our eyes met briefly. I suspected another inspector. I think she felt the same. Nothing was said. It was too delicious a moment to spoil. I felt sorry for the patron, but it was the revenge of the lone female diner.
See also www.solodining.com
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