ROBIN WRITES: Solo dining can be delightful

By Editor | March 18, 2026 |

I enjoy eating alone. I don’t know what that says about me. It could be because I spent my childhood sitting around a table with four brothers.
When Mom wasn’t looking, my brother, Mike, would stretch his snaggle-toothed maw of a mouth wide, poke my arm, and display his chewed food with glee.
The other three boys chuckled and yelled, “SEEFOOD!” Mom shut down the noise, and Mike swallowed his chum, but the view stayed in my brain.
As a teenager, I began going on dates. Sharing a meal with a boy brought both joy and terror to the table. Embarrassment was a teen’s worst nightmare, and eating with a boy was tempting fate.
I learned to order things that would not slop or hang from a fork. Things that could be cut easily and chewed primly. Food that wouldn’t cause coughing or choking.
I watched my date eat with abandon, talking and smiling and digging in, and shadows of my brothers’ faces reminded me that this was another boy. My eyes spotted every splotch of food that painted his face, praying it would be licked or wiped away.
Of course, falling in love and marrying erased most expectations of perfect dining. We ate everything with abandon and swiped our mouths between gulps.
When I became a mom, I spent years watching babies gum jars of pureed vegetables and fruits; they cooed as I scraped and reinserted carrots, peas, and beets past sweet, albeit grossly slathered, lips.
And any mom or dad who has shared a drink with a child knows the horror of a glass of slightly chunky water.
Once the kids were grown and gone, John and I began eating in restaurants more. We entered, ordered, and tried to remember what we used to talk about, back when our interests were each other instead of our children.
After about 5 minutes, the conversation died. We sat like school kids at the unpopular table, looking around at more animated groups and eating quietly.
John preferred eating at home. He had favorite meals I cooked year after year and enjoyed the leftovers until they were gone.
That’s when I started taking myself to restaurants. I’d ask John along, and he’d decline. He didn’t mind if I went, he said. I shrugged and scurried to the car.
My first solo dining experience was breakfast. I stepped up to the greeter and waited for her “how many” question.
“One.”
She barely twitched, but I could see she was surprised. Why would this older lady be here alone? Was she widowed? Lost? Could she be that annoying…that no one else wanted to eat with her?
I waited as she scanned her seating chart, looking for a place for one diner.
“Would you like to sit at the bar?”
I pictured myself, hiking my bottom onto a stool, elbows akimbo against the wood-grained counter, bellowing, “Set ‘em up, Joe!”
I asked for a table. That’s when I learned that the table for one is typically the one next to the restrooms.
But I wouldn’t let that spoil my meal. I grabbed the menu and scanned it, choosing items both messy and decadent.
I didn’t have to talk. Smile. Sit primly and pace my eating to match a partner. I could hog the condiments, stockpile the napkins, and make a mess.
It was heaven.
Since that first solo meal years ago, I’ve taken myself to eateries both elegant and homespun. I’ve ordered steaks and pancakes and enjoyed them in equal euphoria.
If others wonder who this lady is, all alone, I am pleased I’ve given them something to discuss with their tablemates.
And, in the meantime, I’m enjoying my own delicious company.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].