To some, the phrase ‘table for one, please’ is among the saddest in the English language. Perhaps this isn’t a surprise; the concept of social dining for pleasure dates back to Ancient Greece. There, meals would be served at all-male gatherings on low tables so the guests could recline while eating (a recipe for heartburn, but luxurious nonetheless). Then would come the symposium, the section of the evening dedicated to drinking. Although we mix the two a little more fluidly now, the concept is much the same: sharing a meal and drinks with others is an enjoyable thing to do, so people do it.
As such, eating alone has long held a kind of stigma. But I relish the time with my own thoughts, especially in a city as relentless as London. Friends often ask if I feel judged for sitting alone – especially as a woman – or wonder whether other diners will take pity: maybe I’ve been stood up? But truthfully, nobody in a group is very interested in what’s happening at the next table. (Although there’s no better time to people-watch than when you’re alone; strangers’ eating habits are riveting.)
Dining alone is a phenomenon that is on the rise. The latest figures from booking platform OpenTable showed a 160 per cent increase over four years in bookings for one, while many restaurants are installing bar seating to accommodate the growing number of solo diners. I’ve read lots of articles recommending ‘the best places to eat alone’ or offering tips for doing so.
One of the most luxurious things I’ve ever done for myself was to have a solo lunch at Borough Market: six oysters and a glass of cold white wine on a roasting hot day.
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