Dining Alone

In An Alphabet for Gourmets, the inimitable M.F.K. Fisher (of Whittier, CA, haaaaayy) said on the subject of dining alone, "If One could not be with me, 'feasting in silent sympathy,' then I was my best companion." M.F.K. has had tons of genius things to say on the art of eating, but her sentiments on dining alone are some of my favorite.

Of course, not everyone feels the same way. Some people can't bear the thought of dining out by themselves, much less preparing a whole meal at home for one. As Joni Mitchell sang, "But when he's gone, me and them lonesome blues collide/The bed's too big, the frying pan's too wide." The act of going to the market, collecting all the ingredients, slaving over a hot stove and a cleaning up the mess seems like a lot to go through when there isn't someone around to appreciate your good work, or perhaps more importantly, someone to share your gustatorial experience with. I have no scientific evidence to back this claim up, but sometimes food just tastes better when you're digging in with other hungry folk.

But sometimes, dining alone can be a wonderful thing, a chance to spend some time with your charming self, discussing the issues that matter to you most (not aloud, of course), and eating exactly the things that you crave at that very moment. I've been dining alone more often lately, and I am remembering just how satisfying it can be. Fancy restaurants, coddling service, and festive atmosphere have their place, but not when you're dining alone. I love simple food enjoyed in the leisure of time and silence. Sometimes, I don't want to have to think hard about my dinner, about whether or not cocoa, foie gras, and anchovy work together, or about how the little kitchen elves manage to cut such perfectly cubical brunoise, or about the hovering maitre d' who'd love to turn the table over for the patrons shivering by the entrance.

On Monday afternoon, after a three hour hair modeling stint at Bumble and Bumble university, I decided to take a nice stroll down Hudson to Myers of Keswick, the little British food shop(pe) in the West Village, to buy myself some goodies for days when I'm too lazy to do more than pop the lid off of a can and fry some toast in butter. As I was stocking up on tins of Heinz baked beans, Cream of Tomato soup, and Spaghetti, I noticed a sign on the wall advertising the Chip Shop, a British style fish and chips joint in Brooklyn that I'd always wanted to try. It sounded like the perfect treat on a cool autumn day, so I decided to make a date with myself and check it out on the way home.

It was a very San Francisco day, with high sunshine and a brisk wind. It was about 4 p.m. by the time I made it back into Brooklyn, and I was ready for a little late lunch/early dinner to warm up. I ordered a hot mug of PG Tips with milk and sugar, a plate of crisp-fried cod and fresh but slightly soggy chips, overcooked olive colored English style peas, and a ramekin full of pickled onions in malt vinegar. I thought about so many things as I picked away methodically at my plate. I thought about my dear friend Matt who's currently slogging away in England. I thought about how they managed to make the fish batter so crisp, and how it was genius to turn the fish fillet on its side so the whole thing would stay crisp. I thought about washing my hair. I thought about what the ingredients in Branston's pickle might be. I thought about the little ketchup bottle on the table which was in the shape of a red beefsteak tomato. I thought about whether I prefer malt vinegar or tartar sauce with the fish. In other words, I thought about nothing in particular and let the thoughts pass through my head like the cars whizzing by in front of the restaurant.

I ordered a second cup of tea because the first was so impossibly delicious (English tea really is very different from the pencil shavings that pass for "English Breakfast" tea here). The waiter, a scruffy blond with a working class accent, cleared away my table except for my steaming mug. The Chip Shop is the kind of place where they play a constant loop of Beatles music everyday -- it's shticky, but my friends and I listen to the Beatles and the radio so rarely that it was a real treat to listen to these familiar songs, these nostalgic songs, for the first time in a very long time. I was staring out the french doors onto 5th Ave. on this perfectly sunny, apple-crisp fall day when "Til There Was You" came piping through the speakers sweetly. And I just had a perfect moment, you know? Where the milky tea was the perfect temperature and exactly what I wanted to be warming my gullet, and the song in the background was the perfect soundtrack to a perfect little frame of my life in New York. It was the ultimate decadence for me -- a selfishly chosen, gratuitously plentiful dinner enjoyed with a dopey grin on my face and the quiet swirl of my thoughts.