Couples.
How I used to envy them. As I sat down at every “table-for-one” in restaurants, I looked around at the many pairs sitting opposite each other, toasting glasses, dipping into each other’s food, sometimes tasting from the same forks, and generally doing all the things that people in coupledom land do on a daily basis.
Meanwhile, I would sit down alone and be faced with a waiter taking away the place setting opposite me, often the chair, too, and leaving me in no man’s land, reading or playing with my phone in an effort to show people I was not in need of their pitying stares.
It felt very lonely at times. I could never have the Chateaubriand or the paella “for two”, and no amount of telling the waiter I would pay for two ever and leave half ever persuaded them to give me either.
Then there was the toilet problem. As a lone diner, you have two choices: you can take all your belongs with you to prevent theft, but return to find your table cleared and re-set for another party; or, you can leave everything there in the hope that it will show you haven’t done a runner, but return to find someone’s made off with your stuff.
But despite the stresses and sometimes feelings of isolation, I’ve eaten alone in restaurants pretty much all my life – and have learnt to enjoy it. I’ve had to. I travel a lot, and short of chloroforming a passer-by and placing them opposite me, dining companions are hard to come by.
I’ve also learnt that gastric coupling really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
On the few occasions when I’ve been part of a couple, it’s never worked out well. I went on a first date with a man and he immediately told me he suffered from depression and, after the evening, would be going into a darkened room for six months. I hadn’t even nibbled on my first poppadom.
Another one ordered a bottle of Bollinger – on my bill – for some women he fancied on another table.
A supposedly romantic dinner in Paris turned sour when the man opposite said: ‘I think you’re the funniest, smartest and most interesting woman I’ve ever met – I just don’t fancy you.’ Talk about an Eiffel of dreams come crashing down.
I’ve been witness to so many other couples not having a great time, too, that I no longer feel I’m missing out on anything, and some table dramas are often played out so loudly I’m looking for a remote to turn them down a few notches.
I recall a couple in a Harvester in Bristol, smiling at the arrival of their Surf ’n’ Turf. Then it started.
“I know you try,” the man said, his voice rising well above a whisper. “You try your best every time. Now don’t go on about it again.”
The woman was silent. It was clear she had made a special effort with her hair and make-up, but I could see the anguish in her face, as if trying to recall feelings she once had.
They then sat mostly in silence, the space between them engulfing the people on surrounding tables. After an hour of verbal wrangling, they ended up at his conclusion: ‘Think how much happier you’d have been if we’d never met.’
In the distance, the pan pipes coming through the speakers were playing It Must Have Been Love.
I am now relieved when I know that at the end of the night I will be going home alone and not continuing the tabletop drama.
Even when I’m eating out with friends, I’m still glad I’m going home alone. I’ve seen so many home tensions brought to the dinner table and situations in which one half of the partnership ends up storming out – and, on one occasion, both, leaving me with the bill.
I’m sure that the reason so many couples from neighbouring tables engage with me is because they are trying to avoid another argument or are simply bored witless with the person they’re with – and after listening to either of them, invariably I can see why.
In no other place, it seems to me, do couples’ tensions rise to the surface so publicly than in digestive intercourse. The wife of one friend became furious when he paid for my plate of chips and, heaven forbid, a small glass of wine for someone who joined us.
Two friends I no longer see were such stressful company, I used to think they’d be filing for divorce before the post-prandial coffees. I was grateful for every morsel the wife put in her mouth, if only to shut her up for a minute from nagging him about his latest transgression.
The husband of another pair (also no longer on my dining list) ate so loudly, I expected trophy hunters to charge through the door in search of their latest prey. I suffer very badly from misophonia (a huge intolerance to certain sounds – mastication being among them), and if the trophy hunters hadn’t got him, I’d have been next, brandishing my steak knife.
I have dear friends whose company I love and who are extremely generous, and we always have a great time, so much so that I never want the lunch or dinner to end. But, for the most part, I have to take indigestion medication before I meet some others, because it’s not the food that’s going to get to me. It’s them.
Another joy of eating alone is I can order as much I like with no fear of judgement – especially in an Indian restaurant. I like my poppadoms, lentil dhal, chana dhal, mushroom bhaji, vegetable biriani, boiled rice, phal sauce – and yes, I know the biriani comes with its own special rice and curry sauce, but I like boiled rice, too, and the biriani sauce is never hot enough, which is why I order a phal separately. And in any case, I take home what I don’t eat, freeze it and have it for about six more meals. You see? I’m already feeling I’m having to explain myself.
I no longer sit playing with my phone or reading, in an effort to show I’m not lonely. I take time to order, ask questions about the wine, and savour every mouthful while just being. The number of stares I get now I know are not pitying; they are envying, from couples sitting mostly in silence. Clearly miserable in each other’s company and wishing that they, too, could order the Champagne and oysters without their partner reminding them how many people die from shellfish poisoning.
Another table for one, please!
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