Table For One

I used to think the most vulnerable thing a woman could do in public was cry on the Tube. I was wrong. It’s dining alone, at a proper restaurant, with heavy silverware and white linen that seems to stare right back at you. There’s a particular kind of silence that arrives when you sit by yourself at a candlelit table and politely decline the second menu. It’s not loneliness, exactly. It’s exposure. There’s no one to fill the gaps in conversation, no one to toast with, no one to whisper to when the couple next to you begins a lovers’ quarrel over shared scallops.

I remember the first time I dined solo vividly. I was newly twenty, and I’d booked a table at a little bistro tucked just off the coast. The kind of place where the napkins are starched within an inch of their lives and the staff speak about the fish like it has a family name. I told myself I was there to try the new menu, but if I’m honest, I was testing something more fragile: my sense of self. I was determined to prove to myself that I could walk into a room built for two and still belong.

The waiter came over with a charming smile and asked, “Drink suggestion?”

I tried to sound casual. “Something… celebratory.”

He paused, then returned with a tall glass of sparkling rose elderflower, garnished with a twist of lemon. It had sweetness, a little sparkle, and the kind of smoothness that felt poetic. I took one sip and thought, If I’m going to be alone tonight, I’ll be alone with this

There’s something deliciously elegant about dining solo when you allow it to be. Not the rushed, phone-in-hand, eat-at-the-bar version. No. I’m talking about the kind of dining that requires a reservation. A proper table, with a view. An outfit that says you care about the ritual, not just the result. It’s not about drawing attention to yourself, but rather about honouring yourself. You become the occasion.

And yet, it’s impossible to ignore the emotional undertone. The strange, bittersweet beauty of being both entirely content and vaguely aching all at once. I’ve had moments, small, quiet ones. when the solitude pressed in just a little too close. When I noticed a couple sharing dessert and thought, Wouldn’t it be lovely to split something sweet with someone who gets you? Or when the waiter brought two spoons out of habit, and I smiled gently and said, “Just one, thank you.” There’s a pang there. Not of desperation, but of recognition. A longing that simmers beneath the surface. It doesn’t ruin the evening, but it lingers like perfume on a scarf.

And yet, there’s the other side of it. The one I’ve come to crave. The stillness. The way the candlelight flickers just for you. The first bite of food when no one is talking, and the flavours seem louder. The deliberate movements, reaching for the bread basket, unfolding your napkin, sipping your drink without rush or apology. You begin to hear things: the clink of glass, the murmur of laughter, the quiet hush of fine dining. You watch, you notice, and most importantly, you feel.

You feel your own presence, unfiltered. You’re not performing. You’re just being. And in this world that constantly asks women to entertain, to accommodate, to be available, you simply are.

Dining alone, if done well, is a sort of feminine defiance. Not loud, not sharp, but soft and immovable. You do not rush the meal. You do not hide behind your phone. You do not perch at the bar like you’re waiting for someone to join. You sit, you breathe, and you enjoy, without needing a witness to validate the experience.

I do believe in etiquette in these moments. In proper posture, intentional dress, a gracious thank-you to the staff. In ordering dessert even if you’re full, because you can. In taking your time. In folding your napkin when you leave, not abandoning it in a crumpled heap. These small acts turn an ordinary evening into an intimate ritual.

Sometimes, I bring a book. Other times, nothing at all. I just watch. I’ve found a certain pride in it now, not performative pride, but the kind that comes from knowing you’re capable of nourishing yourself, body and soul, without the scaffolding of someone else’s company.

Still, I would be lying if I said I never wished someone was sitting opposite me. Not always. But sometimes. Someone to laugh with over the poorly translated menu descriptions or to taste your risotto and say, “Yours is better.” I think about what it would feel like to share those quiet, romantic moments, the ones that are so often hidden behind noise and company. But I’ve stopped treating that longing as a sign that something is missing. I now see it as evidence of readiness. Of heart. Of hope.

What I’ve learned is this: being alone doesn’t mean you’re unloved. And dining alone doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of celebration. In fact, it’s in those moments, when you pull out your own chair and raise your own glass, that you show yourself the deepest kind of love. Not loud or giddy. But respectful. Sacred. Real.

So I still book the table. I still order the wine. I still dress for the occasion. And when the food arrives, I pause, just for a moment, to say thank you. To myself. For showing up. For not waiting on someone else to make the moment meaningful.

Darling, we are allowed to want both. The romance of solitude and the dream of companionship. But until someone meets you at the table, don’t be afraid to sit there anyway. Fold your napkin with care, take your time with the dessert, and raise your glass to the woman across from no one, who is everything.