Table for one? Not a bad date

Nobody knows better than a restaurant critic about too much of a good thing. Who else would complain on her last night in San Francisco that she had already had more than enough expense-account meals? There I was, dreading one more grand dinner, even if it was to be with a colleague whose company I had always enjoyed. I grumbled as I waited for my guest at Jardiniere. I wasn’t feeling sociable.

I grew more irritable as time passed, and I kept recalculating how late the evening was likely to run. After an hour, I phoned my friend’s answering machine, then faced the embarrassment of having been stood up. I was left to eat by myself, a prospect that made me cringe.

That evening changed my life. I called the waitress over and ordered dinner -- for one. Undoubtedly feeling sorry for me, she lavished me with kind attentions. She found me exactly the right wine; she brought me special things to taste. She made it hard for me to maintain self-pity. So I reassessed.

I took stock of the room and started to enjoy the dramas it offered: the romancing at the bar below my balcony perch, the wine one-upmanship at the opposite table, the couple feigning interest in each other as their eyes darted elsewhere. With no conversation at my table, I could readily eavesdrop. I discovered it was fascinating to dine in silence.

Before that evening I’d always dreaded eating alone in public. I’d been afraid I’d look like a loser and would appear friendless. When forced to dine without a companion, I didn’t know where to rest my eyes, so I tended to stare at my plate. I feared the pace of service would be so slow that I’d have nothing to do between courses. I’d look uncomfortable and grow bored.

My fears had been reinforced by waiters who saw lone diners as a 50% drop in their tips and maitre d’s who considered them a blight on their dining room, like a mismatched chair or a wilting centerpiece.

I’ll never forget the humiliation of a dinner in Parma, Italy, for which I arrived alone with a Saturday-night reservation. Despite my protests -- and unoccupied tables on the main floor -- I was seated in an empty basement and served intermittently by a resentful waiter while I listened to the happy burble of the dining room upstairs.

What’s more, as a restaurant critic I saw solitary meals as a waste of time, because I’d be able to sample only one dish per course.

I went to such lengths to avoid eating alone that when I had an assignment in Atlantic City, N.J., and my companion’s flight was delayed, I circled the casino three times, and then approached two young men who looked harmless and pleasant.

“I’m a reporter for the Washington Post, and I’d like to ask you a question,” I said. “What I want to know is, may I take you to dinner?” They turned out to be podiatry students on their graduation trip, and this was their first French restaurant visit. I felt like the baby sitter for two slap-happy kids. It was my last attempt at a pickup.

When you’re dining alone much depends on your waiter. An empathetic one can improve the meal, even your life.

One evening when I was with friends, I watched a lone woman dining nearby. Partway through her meal, a lone man was seated at the next table. As their dinner stretched through entree and dessert, they began to talk. I worried that the woman would be done long before her neighbor and she’d leave Act III unfinished. But somehow they reached the finale at the same moment and left -- together.

I called over the waitress and asked her about the fortuitous timing. How did that happen?

“I made sure they finished together,” she said. “I like to do that when I’m serving singles.”

Even though I wasn’t looking for a new mate, I grew increasingly fond of dining alone and guarded it as my secret pleasure. I planned solo meals as a treat for when I was tired of making dinner-table conversation. At any restaurant where the menu was small enough to justify sampling by one, there I was, by myself, my mouth watering over a chance to think and observe uninterrupted.

As luck would have it, the next time I was in San Francisco, my dinner guest canceled because she was sick. Not that I wished her ill, but I eagerly set out on a solo adventure. Sure enough, I had a wonderful time dining at the bar this time at Alain Rondelli -- my last visit before it closed its doors forever.

The bartender, who had no idea I was a restaurant critic, set my place with a mirrored placemat and his best crystal, and promised to be my dinner companion. He kept my wine glass and plate filled as I watched my favorite play: dining-room theater. Rondelli took breaks at the bar and started chatting about what I was eating and why he’d prepared it. Every dish had a story.

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A guilty pleasure

Dining alone became my reward for a stressful week. When I finished a big project I’d refresh myself with lunch at a table for one. Sometimes I took a book, though I found it hard to read while I handled knife and fork, so reading limited my choices to soup and sandwich. It also required a table with good lighting.

Mostly, I spent my time thinking. I could solve problems: I figured out my budget at brunch one Sunday so I could bid on a new house immediately after my last danish and cappuccino. Alone, I could better observe the restaurant’s rhythm and subtleties than when I was engaged in conversation. I could review my day and plan my next in an unhurried way.

Most important, I could experience the food with far more concentration than when I had companions. One night I was invited to join colleagues at the French Laundry in Yountville, Calif., before I went on to another engagement. I stayed through two courses of dishes I adored. At this table of six we passed around plates, and between the avid conversation and flying tableware, I felt I’d barely tasted my “oysters and pearls” dish (oysters and tapioca with caviar) or the stunning little soups. I left frustrated.

The next night I was lucky enough to snag a last-minute reservation at the restaurant -- a table for one. I’ve never had a more satisfying dinner. I nearly fell into a trance over the oyster panna cotta and butter-poached lobster. I could let the aromas fill my head and savor the nuances of the wine pairings. I was as absorbed as if I were immersed in a great novel: The outside world receded. When I wanted a break from my concentration, I listened to the birthday celebration at the next table, the food gossip at the one beyond. Then, when the marrow custard arrived, I shut out every distraction and let it totally infuse the moment. I’ve never been able to fix a sensation in my mind more permanently than the taste of that trembling egg-bound marrow.

Don’t get me wrong: Aloneness, like foie gras, is meant to be savored in small doses. Most meals are all the better for having someone to share them. Like the wine, the salt, the bread and butter, conversation seasons the food and fills us with satisfaction. Good company can make the room seem warmer and the dishes taste better. The failings as well as the accomplishments of a restaurant are all the more fun for talking about them.

Which is why I was excited to be dining one day at the Inn at Little Washington in Washington, Va., with my friend Ruth Reichl, former restaurant critic for the Los Angeles Times and currently the editor of Gourmet magazine. I know no restaurant or companion I enjoy more. Because it was Ruth’s first visit to the inn, I’d have the pleasure of her discovery.

So my disappointment was keen when Ruth called from New York to say that snow had delayed her plane. We decided I should go ahead and that she’d try to meet me there. As it turned out, she didn’t make it, and I was forced to dine alone.

You wouldn’t believe what I heard at the next table.

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Phyllis Richman is formerly a restaurant critic for the Washington Post.