Dining Alone
What is it about eating alone that feels so, well, lonely? Is it the fact that everybody else in the restaurant is with someone? Maybe it's because there's nothing to do. You order your food and then just wait. Sure, there's the classic book thing. 'Don't mind me. I'm just sitting here reading Siddhartha, hoping someone will notice how sophisticated or brainy or pretentious I am, and enjoying the pleasurable sensation of eating out all by myself on a Friday night, because, really, there's nothing else I'd rather be doing at this very moment.'
One of the funniest parts of Steve Martin's The Lonely Guy is when he decides to venture out solo to a restaurant. The misery he is put through is funny to us, of course, because we've all been there. Even if we haven't dined out alone, we've seen others do it. And we all know what we were thinking.
Thank God it's not me. Sure, I've heard my friend tell this story already—several times—but at least I'm not facing an empty seat, and reading the sugar packets for company.
Usually, the bad thoughts come about, because it's because my dad at the next table, tsk tsking. 'Isn't it a shame,' he'll say with a shake of his head. 'That poor man is all alone in the restaurant, eating by himself.' I'll lecture him on the fine points of solo dining, and then create a whole imaginary biography for this man. I'll explain that he likes to eat alone, loves it, in fact. He's been looking forward to this all day, and who is my dad to feel sorry for him. Maybe he has a family at home, and this is his night off, some peace and quiet away from the screaming triplets, a nagging wife, and a TV that's always on and always too loud.
As I begin a scenario in which the single guy is a restaurant critic who always dines alone so he can put all of his concentration on the food, I just give in and stop talking. Who am I kidding? Not my dad, and certainly not myself.
If I weren't so stubborn, and it wasn't my dad, I'd be the first to agree that the guy at the table is indeed one pitiful sight. It's depressing just to look at him. The whole dining experience sucks for him, and he's bringing me and my dad down. Can't he just go somewhere else? Somewhere far away from me.
When will we, as a nation, collectively agree to stop the I'm OK, You're OK stuff, and admit that solo dining is just plain lousy, for both the diner and all those who have to watch him or her too blithely pass the time examining forks, tablecloth hems, and shoelaces?
It's one thing to eat alone in a diner, where it's almost preferred, or at a counter, any counter, even a sushi counter, but when solo diners come into my favorite Chinese spot, I wonder why they are so hard on themselves. Still, they go ahead and order egg roll (two per order) or pot stickers (six per order), plus their entrée. Nothing is sadder than one entrée at a Chinese restaurant. It's all about sharing the entrees, and it's hard to share with no one. Why not just order the food for delivery or to go or anyplace where the rest of us don't have to be reminded that we're one break up or fight or missed call away from eating out alone too.
Last time I was away on business in sunny San Diego, I walked past a trendy spot, with everyone having a loud time. I continued right past a lovely outdoor Italian restaurant with a great looking bread basket. The aroma of greasy Chinese wafted out the open doors of a cute storefront, but I continued on to the outdoor mall, where I bought myself some sushi, a cookie, and a movie ticket. There, in the dark, with my movie star friends for company, I enjoyed a lovely dinner by myself, and ruined no one else's dinner either.
After the movie, I strolled back to the hotel, where I enjoyed chocolate cake from room service. They had several kinds, and I had a hard time making up my mind, so I ordered two. I ate them while lying in bed, in my shorts with no shirt, and the TV going. Now, that's how you're supposed to eat out alone.
Spilled Milk
OK, I'm outside at a cafe, and the woman at the next table has big boobs and a scoop-neck t-shirt. Nothing so remarkable there, except for the fact that I noticed. Boobs really aren't my thing. The reason my eyes were drawn there, is that, while taking a bite from her sandwich, a chunk of the filling fell right down into her cleavage. She fished it out—and popped it right into her mouth. The guy she was with was unfazed.
Is this a regular occurrence? Are they so in love that it doesn't matter? Yuck.
A co-worker is taking a dance class after work in the Loop. She says it's quite a workout, and that by the time it's over, not only has dinner time passed, but she's extra starving from a strenuous routine. There isn't much to choose from in the South Loop late at night, and, although a healthy eater, it was time for a burger at Burger King. It was the burger or nothing, and sometimes you just feel like you deserve it. She only had enough money for one, but it would be enough to fill her up until she took the train home.
As she walked down the street, she couldn't resist, and had to open up the bag. There was no way she could wait until she was sitting down. Her legs were shaky, her stomach was grumbling, and her head was spinning.
The smell. She lovingly describes the smell of the grilled meat, and how she was salivating, how her hands shook as she unwrapped the steaming burger, and how it fell out of her fumbling fingers to land, open faced in a dusty curb on Wabash.
Without even thinking about it, she bent down, picked up the burger brushed it off with her hand, and took a big bite. She said it was a great burger.
While she tells this story, her husband is unfazed. Perhaps he has witnessed worse. The kind of Worse, that can never be mentioned.
Sure, I'll eat something off the floor, but I don't follow that five second rule so many folks follow. There are so many factors that go into it. The burger on the street? No way. Moist and dirt are an absolute no for me. But, had I been in the same starvation situation and dropped, oh, say a muffin, or chips or peanuts—You get the picture: dry. Well, then, I'd just brush off the muffin, or break off a little piece and dig in. But a greasy burger that has just picked up dirt and sand and grit? No way.
My nephew is a little past five years old, and has a healthy appetite. His parents and grandparents have taught him from the very beginning, that food off the ground is a big no-no, although they probably haven't yet had to have the conversation about food in cleavage. But, he's no dummy. If food drops on the ground, one of two things happens.
If we're all sitting at the table and there's more to be had, he'll hardly notice. Why should he? My clean freak dad will swoop in to pick it up, and my mom will already be putting more on my nephew's plate.
But, if he's alone, he's just like you and me. Yes, you do. So does my mom and Ben Affleck and Miss America and the President. If it falls on the floor (and in your parameters of acceptable—five seconds, not wet, no one is looking, etc.), then you pop it in your mouth as if nothing has happened. If eating something that has fallen on the ground really made us sick, half the population would be in the hospital right now.
Food in the cleavage most likely will make no one sick (except possibly this gay man), but, really, there are plenty of people out there—gay and straight—who would find food in the cleavage not just a happy accident, but an end in itself. Hey, whatever turns you on. And, food smeared spread, dropped, or otherwise displayed on flesh has been a turn on for couples for ages.
Next time I'm sitting at home on a hot hot night, with my shirt off, eating a cookie or a bowl of ice cream, I won't clean it up myself, but look for my partner.
