A Lunch of One’s Own
It was colder than I thought it would be. The chilly air mixed with the bright sun gave me an achy feeling in my body (the one where you’re in the sun all day and then the sun goes down and you can’t get warm, like your skin is still reaching for that warmth but it’s gone). I walked down India Street. I went into Blick’s. I bought nothing. I walked the other way down India Street and carefully considered the many restaurants around me. So many options. Tourists sitting outside digging into bubbling pizza pies and crisp salads, sipping wine and laughing, shielded by huge sunglasses. Locals cooly strolling by in Vuori and Alo, slipping into understated establishments for a quick bite before going about their normal, everyday routines. I was somewhere in between. A tourist, yes. But I was seeking a quiet place to do something perfectly ordinary yet rare for me: have lunch alone.
I see it all the time and think nothing of it. When friends or family members comment about the nuances and challenges of dining alone, I encourage them to go. What’s the big deal? Take a book!
But here I was, hungry, alone, and bookless, and struggling to identify the right spot for the occasion. I needed someplace quiet, but buzzing enough to indicate the food was good. There would need to be a bar, because a bar felt more protected, somehow more anonymous than having a table. Maybe too, there would be a bartender to chat with. Others sitting at the bar to converse with, or at least share a smile with. It would be casual, no big thing. I was in California, away from my landlocked home state of Tennessee, so I was hoping for seafood or something along those lines; something I couldn’t find as easily at home.
I walked past Crudo about four times before I decided to go in. I Googled it while walking past it to check out the reviews. Not as many as a nearby Ironside, but Ironside was packed and the bar situation was too intimidating for my solo journey. Crudo felt right. It was small, with an indoor/outdoor setup and an airy, coastal theme. It was like someone’s sleek kitchen in Greece or somewhere fabulous like that where I could slide in and grab a bite before carrying on with my day. And it served ceviche, oysters, and good wine. Three of my favorite things. This was it.
I walked in and chose a seat at the bar. There were a few tables occupied in the dining area. I waited for a bit. Too long. I thought about leaving. I checked my phone. Realized I had a low battery. I looked at the bar. I eyed the oysters sitting on ice behind the counter, not unlike precious gems sitting in the window display of a jewelry store. I watched the people at the tables in the dining area. I looked at the bar again. I looked at the oysters again. I stole more looks at the people in the dining area. I turned around to watch people walk up and down the sidewalk. I thought about leaving again.
The waiter approached me. He was the only one attending the tables. He was sorry for the wait. He dropped the menu.
Perfect. Reading material. This would occupy my mind for a while and it would make me look busy. I read the menu what felt like fifteen times. I considered my options. I wanted Sancerre but they only sold it by the bottle. I wanted to Google some of the items but remembered the low battery. I decided it was worth the battery juice to Google which is better with oysters, Chablis or Chenin Blanc? The internet told me either would work. The waiter asked what he could bring me. I ordered Chablis and shrimp ceviche.
While I waited, I unfolded my silverware and placed my napkin in my lap. I did this slowly. I looked directly ahead at the bar again and admired its clean aesthetic. I observed that there was a large horizontal mirror directly in front of me, but too high for my full face to be reflected. All it showed of me were my eyebrows. I observed that I don’t dislike my eyebrows. Aside from my eyebrows, the mirror reflected people behind me walking up and down the street. I watched them this way for a while. It was like watching a movie. In a meditative-type state, I watched. Nothing in particular struck me, but it was a relaxing moment that I would have otherwise never had if I was sitting at the bar chatting with someone.
The shrimp ceviche came and its presentation on a simple white plate mirrored the clean aesthetic of the bar. I took a photo. I typically try to avoid doing this (as proof to society that a millennial can eat a meal without documenting it), but I like to have photos of the food I eat when I travel. It helps me remember restaurants and dishes I enjoyed. I ate the ceviche slowly and with intention. I experienced the dish and considered the flavor, texture, and presentation of my food and drink. The thick, cold, tender pieces of shrimp. The salty and earthy crunch of the tostada. The acidity of the lime juice. The bitterness of the greens. I slowly tasted, chewed, and swallowed. I sipped my wine and considered the magical interaction between the wine and the ceviche and the tostada. I dabbed my mouth with my napkin. I looked back at the movie in the mirror.
The waiter returned. I ordered a half dozen oysters and a second glass of wine. Returning to the movie in the mirror, it struck me that this lunch was creating an indelible impression on me. I considered why. I decided it was for a few reasons. I was doing something just for me. I chose exactly where and what I wanted to eat and drink and took my time doing it. This lunch created a space for me to observe and savor the meal instead of the meal being an afterthought to a conversation. It served as evidence of a comforting adage inspired by an exchange between Alexis and David in Schitt’s Creek that my husband shares with me when I am feeling self-conscious: no one is looking at you. The anxiety I felt selecting a restaurant and a seat and appearing occupied and content to the others around me melted away the longer I sat in the barstool. It was true. No one was looking at me. And this was freedom.
Six oysters were placed in front of me, perfect little jewels. They looked almost too good to eat.
Almost.
