Eating alone

A woman eating alone in a "sit-down" restaurant is an unusual thing, even in the twenty-first century. I realized this a few years ago, when I would occasionally eat out alone. Most of the time, I would come prepared to look busy, brandishing a book or magazine like a weapon of sorts against the confused and/or pitying gaze of the waitress. But honestly, I don't like to read while I'm eating; I don't like to talk much, either. I just want to focus on the fleeting pleasure of hot, flavorful food, freshly delivered from the kitchen: the way it looks on the plate, the way it smells, and of course, the way it tastes. In fact, one of my favorite moments in everyday life is when a plate of food is placed in front of me. (If you've met the people who raised me, this should come as no surprise.) I don't need a partner to enjoy this moment, even if I am a woman.

Since I got married, I don't eat at restaurants alone all that often. Eating is one of the most fundamental activities of life, so if you're truly sharing your life with someone, it goes without saying that you'll eat with them most of the time. Last Saturday, however, I found myself alone, and knew exactly what I wanted to do: eat lunch at Lulu's Noodles and then spend the afternoon at the Carnegie Museum. So, I went to Lulu's, announced to the host that I was a party of one, and was given the worst table in the entire place, which I'm sure they were saving for a solitary party such as mine. I resisted the urge to get out a suitable person-dining-alone activity, and instead simply sat and (i'm pretty sure) blatantly stared at the people around me, eavesdropping on their innane conversations. It was great. Then, my green tea and pad thai arrived, and I savored the moment as long as I could.

Alone, and without the self-imposed distraction of a book, the moment was heightened: I dwelled upon the well-balanced flavors and textures, the heat on my tongue. I ate so slowly and deliberately that I couldn't finish the generous helping, as I usually can. My meal, along with the gray afternoon light on the table and the clamor of eating all around, formed a sort of still-life in my head, and as I walked through the art galleries later, I wished that I could bring myself to paint it. But I don't paint anymore, so I'll use Li-Young Lee's words to represent the subdued pleasure of eating alone I experienced that day:

White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want?