Dining Alone

orange wine with mackerel, sparkling white with oysters

“Walk in for one?”

The waitress looked surprised to see me. I immediately felt embarrassed to have said the phrase “walk-in”. Like I had blown my cover, used restaurant jargon and now I’m exposed. 

“Oh, uh, let me see… I can maybe get you in at the bar but there are guests hovering as they wait for their table.” 

The place was packed and the lighting was too bright. I could see everything. The surprise of the first warm day of spring, the receding hairlines, the apathy of a dinner companion. 

“Of course! That’s perfect, I’m happy to wait.”

This isn’t some existential realization. Or the key into some part of my subconscious. I’ve dined alone before and have served people who are seated in my section, quietly sitting with their gaze softly on a book or a journal. This isn’t some big secret but I feel awkward. My purse is too heavy with things to fidget with. I stand with my weight on my good leg, look out into the dining room and try my hardest not to scroll to ease the discomfort. There’s a chalkboard with tonight's specials and I struggled to make sense of the words. The words “pan-fried” and “mackerel” and “Montenegro” but in the moment it just felt like slam poetry and the meaning was going to find me in days time through reflection. There was a couple sitting adjacent to me and I watched a woman with ashy blonde hair give her husband a short smile before turning her attention to the menu. 

“Okay, so here’s what we’re gonna do, there are only two seats available in the middle of the bar, pick whichever one you want.” 

The waitress was masked but I could see her stress in the furrow of her brow. 

“Great, thanks!” 

I had washed my hair, done minimal makeup, and chosen an outfit that was put together enough to be in the room but not so much to make a statement. I was here to observe and eat. Not turn heads or indulge. My seat options were sandwiched between a middle aged gay couple that looked like they were on their last round and a woman with bright red nails and big golden bangles on her wrists. She was facing straight forward to the bar, not leaning to maintain eye contact with someone next to her and it seemed that she too was here alone. I chose the seat next to her. 

Richmond’s food scene has always confused me. There are many places to eat and yet I feel few places with warm lighting and expensive fish on the menu actually stand out. They struggle with the label of “New American” or have been white knuckling existence since the pandemic. Having grown up and worked in the food scene here, my own ideas of these restaurants have been warped into preconceived judgements through industry gossip.

“The chef threw a spatula at my boyfriend,” “I heard the waitress was fired after she had sex with the manager,” “Fuck that place, the bartender is total abuser,” “I stopped going once they hired him,” “New owners, it sucks now.” 

My judgements grew and I did little to change them. I listened, read, and talked but never ate. Never took a chance to find out for myself. If I was asked where to go out on my birthday, if my brother was in town and we were celebrating, if I wanted to take my grandma to lunch, I had no idea where to go. But those judgements are years old now. The staff has turned over, the menu has changed, the creepy bartender skipped town. 

That’s where this idea came from. I have a little bit of money now, and if I promise to cook and pack my own lunches for work, if I eat my groceries throughout the week then once a month I can take myself out to a nice restaurant. I can sit at a bar or at a table, order a glass of wine and an entrée and find out for myself how it feels to be in a dining room. How it feels to be served. 

I felt anxious about the lack of elbow room between me and the woman with bangles at the bar. She was eating something fried and had a bright pink cocktail with lavender petals dusted on top of the ice. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” The bartender asked. 

“A glass of Malvasia, thanks!” 

It was, objectively, the perfect day for an orange wine. It was 72 degrees and pollen wasn’t choking the air yet. I pronounced the wine correctly and felt off to a good start. The bartender turned back around,

“The Malvasia?” she asked, confused.

“yeah, uh, malvAsia? The orange by the glass?” I said, feeling a lot less confident. 

“ooh, hmmm, okay it’s a Trebbiano blend, do you know that?” she answered. 

“Yes, that one, I do know, thanks.” I felt caught, again. 

I saw the bartender open the bottle and, with her back to me, serve herself a tasting. Turn around, I thought. Let’s taste it together and tell me what you think. Chat me up and help me feel less awkward. She turned around, having tasted that the wine wasn’t off and served me a sip. I did know this wine. It smelled like slightly rotting apricots and leather. The taste was mineral and just a hint salty. Quince. This wine is funky and familiar. It tastes like the job I had the summer of 2023. I nodded and she poured me a glass. 

The woman next to me looked so serene. At peace. The gay couple was discussing “being 40” and a trip to Italy. The bartender didn’t card me but I just felt stupid. Childish. I wanted to turn to the red nailed woman and ask her how she does it? How are you so at ease? Is this because I don’t meditate? 

“Can I ask, what are you drinking?” I said, turning to her slightly. She was so even, so unfazed. I wanted to ask her about her life. How often she eats alone and what perfume she was wearing. I wanted to ask her, in the most sincere way possible, if she comes here often. 

“It’s an N/A option, but it's this one right here” She pointed to the menu. We went politely back and forth. A waitress took away her app plate and dropped the knife. The gay couple paid their bill and left. The bartender turned down the lights. 

“Can I get the Spanish Mackerel?” I ordered. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because it was fish off the bone. Maybe because it was under 20$. Next to me the woman was expertly eating around a whole branzino. I pulled out my notebook and wrote random things down in my schedule. I pulled out a book and flipped through some pages. I was looking at the words on the page but really I was listening to the music. A 2017 indie song ended and then a metal song came on. It fell enough into the background that I don’t think most people noticed. But the pig squealing was distinct to the sound of the meat sizzling on the grill. This must be the chef’s playlist. The mark of a true Richmond restaurant. I heard the song skip. 

“Here’s your mackerel, enjoy!” The bartender set the plate before me. The mackerel was sitting crossed on top of a bed of shaved fennel with segments of citrus adorning the plate. Grapefruit and blood orange, the fennel was glossy with dressing. I took a precarious bite, not wanting to bump into my solo diner companion, and tasted boquerones. Vinegar cured fish, but it wasn’t the fish at all. The mackerel tasted like it was cooked in butter, soft and pleasing. But the fennel dressing was pure vinegar. The citrus adds more acidity with a bitter edge. I sipped my wine. The mineral complexity of the wine was gone and the acid turned it to copper in my mouth. Acrid. I had ordered poorly. 

I watched the dining room. The tables were turning over and the bar stools opened up. It now felt like I was too close, like sitting next to someone on an empty bus. I gazed at her branzino and then down at my plate. I sipped my wine again and kept eating. An entitled man with a polo shirt was aggressively trying to get a waitress's attention. There were three chefs working the open kitchen. A serious looking man with a beard and glasses who I suspected to be the head chef. A tall, pale man working the cold section and a much younger looking guy sweating over the open flames. A fork dropped and clanged against the tile floor. 

“How is your mackerel? Can I get you anything else” 

I wanted to own up to my mistake. To feel comfortable enough to share my opinion. But also convey that it wasn’t anyones fault. I ordered the wrong thing, that can happen to anyone, right? 

“Yes! I have an idea actually. The mackerel and wine are both great, but I don’t think they made the best match. It’s okay, really, but to finish I’d like to have 2 oysters and a glass of the sparkling, what do you think?” 

The second bartender perked up at my comment, like he was sizing me up. I heard it. The pretension. I don’t know maybe it was dumb to bring up but I thought, hey! If I was serving and someone asked me “What wine do you recommend for the mackerel?” I’d like to know not to pair it with the Trebbiano/Malvasia blend. 

“Bubbles and oysters for dessert, perfect!” She turned her back and typed it into the POS. 

I was actually reading my book now. My solo dinner companion had cleaned her fish, finished her mocktail and asked for the check. A group of women walked in and sat at the bar. My bartender was happy to see them and greeted them with brighter energy. The second bartender brought two bottles of sparkling wine. The first he emptied into my glass, then topped it off with the other. 

“It was nice to chat with you, enjoy your evening” the woman gracefully dismounted the stool, tapped her fingernails on the bar before giving me a warm smile and walking away. 

The oysters would set me right. Loosen me up, remind me of the simplicities of life and I can walk out of here just like she did. A self actualized woman. They came in a gorgeous bowl, sitting on top of ice and pre-dressed with mignonette. More vinegar. It’s these moments where opinions are created through experience. I have this unwavering belief not because of what others have told me or because of what is expected of me. I have the unwavering belief that oysters should be served clean with lemon, mignonette, or hot sauce on the side because of experience. I slurped them into my mouth and tasted the sweetness through the minced chive and red wine vinegar. I ordered the check. 

“Better pairing for you?” the second bartender said as he handed my check. I heard it in his tone. “You happy now, princess?” 

“Yup! Can’t go wrong with oysters and bubbles!” I forced my sweetness. A smile and a good tip. 

They were picking back up as I left. The bar was filling up again and the chef was pulling strings of tickets at a time. I’ll probably be back. I don’t know, maybe not for a little while. Maybe with a friend who agrees on the expense and we can get a whole roasted fish and sit at a table. 

I was on the phone with my cousin when I got home. Walking into the kitchen, I pulled out a skillet. It was past 11:30 pm. 

“Que haces?” She asked.

“Un omelet” I replied, cracking eggs into a bowl.