Dining alone

Over the years I’ve dined alone from time to time, at restaurants with beautiful views, or quaint interiors, or interesting menus. No matter what age I was at the time, I rarely got the chance to enjoy my meal without feeling that my sole presence as a woman dining alone was a disturbance.   In a Greek restaurant in Chicago, the waiter asked me three times if I wasn’t expecting someone else before finally bringing me a menu, and then served me with a kind of quiet fury.  In a fish restaurant in Tofino, Canada, on a short break from teaching, I asked for a table by the window. I was shown a table in a dark corner, where all I could do was admire the wood paneling.  I sat down obediently and stared at the white tablecloth. I was early.  The place was empty.  They didn't take reservations.  Strangely, what I felt was shame. 
 
A few months ago, I found myself in beautiful Rennes, Brittany.  I had just returned to Europe after thirty years of living in the States, and I was looking for the right place to have my first meal out.  I had bought a French diary, still wrapped in cellophane, and a brand-new French pen, and wanted to enjoy a glass of French wine together with a delicious French meal. I found a little bistro that seemed to promise all that.  Two men, tall, lean, fashionably unshaven, stood smoking on the steps.  “Ah bah oui,” they were serving dinner.  Was I expecting someone else? Non? I was shown a table right behind the open door, squeezed into a corner so tight I had to keep my elbows close in order not to hit wall or glass.  I asked for another table.  The place was empty, after all.  I was early.  “Non,” all reserved.  Not even a “désolé.”  Service was perfunctory, the bread dry, the wine they recommended, terrible. I ordered fish.  The waiters stood at the bar, looking in my direction, sneering.  Did they know they were crushing my French dream?  I used the breadknife to slash open the cellophane wrapping of my diary.  They snickered more loudly.  I screwed the cap off my new pen.  I looked at them, leaning against the bar, looking back at me.  I glanced up at the board listing the specials of the evening and wrote the name of the dish I had ordered.  I looked at the wine list next to the specials and wrote down the name of the terrible wine.  I swirled my glass, took another sip, closed my eyes for a moment before writing something in my diary that had nothing do with wine.  I noticed they weren’t sneering any more.  I took out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the menu, of the place, of my food, writing in between snapshot and snapshot. They looked worried. One came over and asked me if I had enjoyed my food.  The other recommended a different, much better wine. I got fresh bread.  They had become the polite French waiters I had pictured.  When I left, the place was still almost empty.   The pen felt warm in my hand.