Custom has it that breakfast alone, whether in a café or coffee shop or restaurant, is altogether right and proper. Lunch alone, ditto. Yet there’s something socially askew about having dinner solo in a nice restaurant. Dinner in a restaurant is a date thing, a family thing, a partner thing, a friends thing, even a business associates thing. Not so much a solo thing.
The custom would be sufficiently strong to qualify as a taboo, if it weren’t for the increasing percentage of urban professional people who live alone and have no intention of denying themselves basic pleasures such as dinner at quality restaurants instead of quick-feed joints that cater to singletons or night owls. I’m one of those urban professionals. Just because I’m having my dinner on my own does not mean that I’m restricted to tacquerias or hamburger joints or cafés. I can go to all of those and more, but most of the time I prefer a real restaurant—with tables and chairs, with waiters and busboys, with wine lists and dessert lists and cocktail lists and discreet lighting and the check in an embossed vinyl holder with a clear plastic pocket for my credit card. I eat out several times a week during the school year, partly out of aversion to cooking after a long teaching day, but mostly because I relish the quiet satisfaction of an evening devoid of shopping, cooking, serving, and cleaning. Having my dinner in a restaurant means that I will indulge in an appetizer or soup—neither practical for an at-home meal, that I will have a far superior entrée than I would likely prepare for myself, that I will have a cocktail before and a big glass of wine during and dessert with a decaf afterwards. All for a price, of course, but it’s all within budget.
Furthermore, if I’m tired enough to eschew take-out or plopping a steak on the griddle at home, I’m probably tired enough to eschew conversation as well. Sitting alone, perhaps quietly wool-gathering, watching the parade of people outside, or reading the evening paper, a magazine, or a book, wraps up the day in comfort. The demographic of San Francisco’s Castro district tilts notably towards affluent professionals and unmarried folk, so the staff of most neighborhood restaurants are familiar and comfortable with the solo guest. I prefer an early dinner, usually around 5:30 or thereabouts, so I typically bring my patronage to restaurants at a time when they’re nearly empty. Thus I almost always enjoy attentive—and non-stressed—service, and given that I reward my favorites with repeat visits, I benefit from being a valued ‘regular.’
Nonetheless, some people find the entire notion of single dining disconcerting, even downright uncomfortable. They’re the same ones who will skip seeing a movie if they can’t rustle up a companion, even though there’s nothing unseemingly about going to the movies alone. Nor has any taboo been proclaimed regarding solo patrons at the Symphony, Opera, or at museums. Our societal snobberies are inconsistent.
Yet even I tend to respect one particular dining taboo: I’m not in the least inclined to have my dinner alone in a truly high-end, posh restaurant of the Acquerello or Gary Danko or Jardinière variety. I’m not sure why I draw a line in the sand there, given that I’m quite comfortable eating alone in a restaurant just one peck down the hierarchy. It would appear that my snobberies are no more consistent than those of the general. It isn’t really a matter of price; it’s more a matter of definition. Dining in a foodie Eden such as Acquerello is a special occasion and really should be savored with a properly attentive and appreciative partner; conversation, often about the dinner itself, is an integral part of that occasion. The same line of reasoning leads me to conclude that I wouldn’t be comfortable dining in a group at Acquerello or its ilk. Too many people result in cross-wired conversations and shifting foci, thereby diluting the one true purpose of the evening, which is to revel in the delights of high-end cuisine.
To conclude: San Francisco is full of restaurants, and I daresay they’re there for a reason. I cannot see why my chosen single life should preclude my taking fullest advantage of this wacky town’s culinary bounty. In fact, my very freedom (no negotiations with vegetarians or vegans or folks on Atkins or with a bone to pick about farmed tuna or spooked by a TV consumer watchdog) allows me even more latitude. I eat as and where and what I wish, without justifying or explaining or excusing myself to anybody about anything. Happily snuggled up to my table for one, I beam with the regal serenity that comes only with independence. A state of grace, in effect, to be had for a mere swipe of a credit card. Perhaps it’s even better than that: what state of grace comes with strawberry cheesecake and decaf cappuccino?