Dining Solo
The look is always the same. A flash of pity, a glance back at the dining room, and a moment’s hesitation as the host decides if it’s worth their while to have a solo diner in their restaurant. Before I enter, I’ve already scoped out the table situation, are there two-person tables available or only four-seaters? Are there other people dining alone, couples, or just groups? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter, if this is where I want to eat, I’ll take any table.
My first words to the host are always whatever the appropriate greeting is in the local language, or at least my best attempt, and usually followed by an impish smile. I’m gracious and take no offense when I’m seated at a less desired table, and they clear away the other place settings.
My backpack sits on the chair opposite me, my companion on my travels, while my camera sits on the table within easy reach. Options abound on menus and sometimes I wish I had a companion, if only to be able to try more food. Once I’ve chosen a drink and placed my order, I grab my camera and use the time to review some of the photos I’ve taken from the day’s meanderings. Later in the meal, maybe between courses, I will take out my journal and jot down a few notes about what I’ve seen, heard, and experienced that I don’t want to forget. Sometimes I even begin drafting, words and impressions, of what I’ll write when I share my travels with friends and family.
Waiters often ask how I like my visit to their city. I always reply positively. I am keenly aware of being an American, and I always try to be gracious and kind, speak softly, and show appreciation.
Buona sera. I’m sorry, I don’t have a reservation. Is it possible to have dinner for one?” I see the look and feel the hesitation, but he is quick to move on. Dining alone in Italy is an anathema. The host offers me a high-top table just behind the host stand and across from the open kitchen. “Grazie.” I sit facing the windows looking out onto a busy street just outside the old town of Sorrento.
An aperitif, signora.” A tiny glass bottle with a cork stopper and a miniature crepe is placed in front of me. I smile. A magical elixir and I get to drink it. The clear liquid is a mild gin and tonic, and the crepe is cream-filled with basil pesto. The menu is only two pages long, with an emphasis on local seafood. I see fiori di zucca fritti, fried zucchini blossoms, on the menu and immediately know it will be my first course.
I say this to the waiter, and he smiles at me. Instead of taking the order, he asked if I would like the chef’s choice antipasto, which includes the zucchini flower. “It is for two people” I reply. He nods, and continues, “We will make it for you, and only charge half.”
Grazie.” Seared local octopus and a cheese plate make up the next two courses. “Wine?” Of course, I want wine, and ask for suggestions. He tells me that the sommelier will be over to help with selections. He recommends three, one for each course. They are perfect.
Sometime between ordering food and the arrival of the sommelier, I decide that I am not going to worry about how much this meal costs. I am going to delight in all of it. It will be the perfect ending to the fulfillment of a life-long dream-wandering the ruins of Pompei.
I sit in perfect contentment. I don’t take out my camera or even my phone but instead watch the chef, sous chef, and assistants move seamlessly through the clean and organized kitchen. A glass of wine appears and soon after it six small plates; three with fish, one with a single perfect prawn, one with eggplant, and the last is my fiori di zucca fritti. I remember that I should take a picture. It is a good thing because I am too busy eating to write down the details of each dish.
Are you a writer?” The host, who has checked on me periodically throughout my meal, asks.
No, I’m a schoolteacher,” I reply quickly realizing that my intense observations of the kitchen and my notetaking about each dish and the day’s explorations may have made the staff nervous. Did they think I was a blogger or a writer visiting for the sake of a review? He then tells me about his son, four years old who loves books, the ocean, and trains. He asks about my travels, and how I am enjoying Sorrento. He recommends going to the Marina Grande, at the bottom of the cliffs at the southern edge of town.
I had not yet tasted the lemons of the Amalfi coast and I ordered a warm lemon cake as a last course extending my time in this wonderful restaurant just a bit longer. Almost three hours after my arrival, my meal is complete.