Eating alone in a restaurant is one of the most terrifying experiences in America.
The solitary diner is the unwanted and unloved child of restaurant row. No sooner does he make his appearance than he is whisked away to a tiny table, wedged between busboy stations and only a hair’s length from the men’s room.
Rather than face this grim scenario, most guys would rather much away at a peanut butter and jelly or a tuna fish sandwich in the relative safety of their own abode.
But the scene is all too common. That’s because singles are the fastest growing group in America.
Right now, 27 percent of the population lives alone. That’s more than married couples with children.
And though man is, by nature, a social being, he’s not always a social eater. A 10-nation study finds 46 percent of American adults saying they eat a meal by themselves either every day or most days. By comparison, 25 percent of respondents in Italy said the same, as did 33 percent in Russia, 36 percent in the U.K. and 40 percent in Germany.
The disparity reflects Americans’ predilection for eating away from home. Thirty-two percent eat at a restaurant at least a few days a week; 25 percent eat that often while in transit from place to place.
We’re eating more in our cars than by candlelight.
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That’s interesting, considering there’s always been a stigma about eating alone—probably for fear of a disdainful server or of strange, pitying looks from other patrons.
For hungry loners everywhere, it might be acceptable to bring reading material, a notebook, or an organizer—but it’s a faux pas to whip out a laptop.
I’m not a loner, but every now and then I find myself dining alone.
If I’m out on assignment, or my wife is out of town with friends, it might be 8 p.m. before I finally give in and head out to a restaurant. By then, it’s too late to invite friends out for a meal. Hardly anyone wants to dine after 7 p.m.
So, I make the best of the situation. I try not to be self-conscious. But sometimes I feel like a loser sitting alone in a dining room.
I catch myself listening to nearby conversations instead of concentrating on the subtle nuances of the dish in front of me.
Instead of savoring a stylish dessert, I frequently discover that I am watching the comings and goings in the place.
I notice that a man and woman are flirting with each other at a nearby table.
I hear the complaints of the waitresses and the cooks if I’m unlucky enough to be seated near the kitchen.
I observe that two men in business suits seated near the window have opened their briefcases to discuss their sales strategy for the next day.
They toss numbers around like hot pizza.
One guy waives his glass to the waitress for a refill.
The other asks for her phone number.
“But I’m mar-r-r-r-ied!” she stammers, her rosy cheeks getting rosier.
Then silence.
“Pity,” the man whispers.
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Another couple seated in a booth wait impatiently for the check.
Apparently, they are contemplating a divorce.
He complains she spends too much time at the table listening to the neighboring diners.
I am tempted to suggest that they dine out alone.
She intones that she is fed up with his family; something about his siblings are mental cases.
He counters that her kin folk are freeloaders, something about her mother taking a ham from their refrigerator.
“It was a chicken, you moron!” she says, feigning hysteria.
“Chicken, ham, what’s the difference?” he mutters, leaving a one-dollar tip.
She winces, “Sewer breath!”
I wait until they are gone before I get up and pay for my evening meal.
As I drive home, I wonder if the couple will get back together and reconcile their differences.
I doubt if it will happen.
I vow not to eat out alone for a while.
The food just tastes better when you are dining with a friend.
And you don’t have to watch the comings and goings of the restaurant.
After all, it’s rude to do that when you’re with company.
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Top o’ the morning!