The Art of Eating Alone 🍝
I was 15 the first time I dined alone in public. I learned about the art of eating alone from another teen girl, Sandra (French pronunciation and never went by a nickname). An only child, French dad, Persian mom, both worked in finance and so she was well acquainted with solo meals. It was one day we were both stood up by our Algebra tutor in a part of the city that wasn’t where either of us lived. Sandra didn’t wait for a second, she left immediately after receiving the news. It would be another hour until one of my parents picked me up, I wasn’t sure what to do. Kids didn’t have mobile phones yet, so I did what was well taught to me should I be stranded and clueless of what bus to take home. There was a coffee shop diner on the corner of my tutor’s building, so I walked there knowing that I had enough money to buy a soda, fries and a phone call to my house. Inside I spotted Sandra seated at the counter reading a newspaper of all things. At first I stared, wondering if she even knew what she was reading. When I finished my call at the pay phone, my mom confirmed that with late afternoon traffic she’ll most likely be there within half an hour. The smell of grease from the open kitchen line was intoxicating, I needed to order up some fries to go and possibly eat it in the lobby of my tutors building. As I started walking towards the cashier station to place my order, Sandra noticed me in between the flips of the newspaper pages. She greeted me as if we hadn’t just been with each other five minutes ago. Then she did something ultimately cool. She asked if I was ordering anything and as soon as I nodded yes, she invited me to join her.
For a month I had sat behind Sandra in the tutoring sessions. She was a front of the class first row type of student, besides that all I knew about her was the way she tousled her long naturally wavy dark hair from side to side when she was about to ask a question. Her outfits were normally the traditional all-girls private school uniform, finished with dark brown penny loafers. However, today she was in civilian attire, which I assumed meant that she stopped off at home to change before tutoring. She was dressed in a light brown crewneck cable knit sweater, blue jeans and the same penny loafers. I propped myself up casually on to the counter stool praying that this wasn’t one where the swivel was too loose. I needed to look cool now. Just as I sat down her food had arrived. It was basically dinner, meatloaf with mashed potatoes, carrots, broccoli with a side dish of gravy. Sandra looked pleased and said aloud, “Can she please get a menu?” It was so easy for her. I announced loud enough for the server to hear from down the way that I was just ordering a side of fries, the sound of it made me feel small and uncool. “My mom’s on the way,” I explained to Sandra to redeem myself. She seemed so much older than me, the way she spoke, the newspaper, which I now recall was the Arts section, but she looked my age except from a 90’s J.Crew catalogue.
Our conversation mostly revolved around Sandra talking in between bites. Sometimes I asked questions, but she was very chatty, the type A student I had been familiarized with in tutoring class. Sandra lived in a doorman building, had an Australian Shepherd named Boogie and was traveling to France in July to visit her grandparents. She asked me nothing about my life which I was glad for, I was too fascinated by her independence.
When she finished her plate, she moved it a little to the front and placed her used napkin neatly beside it. I watched the front windows for any sighting of my mom’s car, while trying to keep my attention close to Sandra’s conversation. I had barely touched my fries, but hesitated to ask if I can get a box for it. Why wasn’t I good at this? Luckily, the server appeared and asked if I wanted that to go and I emphatically said yes. Still no sign of my mom, then Sandra asked if I had time for a coffee. Of course she drank coffee, I thought to myself. I explained that I was leaving soon, but she ordered one for herself anyway. “I just love diners. The one by my apartment is so old school, they only play 50’s music…” she carried on about how she frequented there for breakfasts if she had time. This was her life, the freedom to be with just herself on her own time as she chooses.
My ride came just as her cup of coffee arrived on the counter. Before our goodbyes, I asked her if she wanted a ride home. She graciously said no, that her ride was coming soon too. Something told me that her ride was a mere cab fare.
Two weeks after my dinner with Sandra, I decided to take myself out for breakfast. It was tricky since most 15 year old girls needed to explain her every move with validity and cause. And even if I did explain to them my ambition for a solo meal, without a doubt they would force me to take my little brother, which was not part of my plan. I wanted to see what it was like, if I could’ve pulled off being a Sandra for the day. The library which was 4 blocks away was a suffice excuse and there was a small diner cafe across the street. I dressed accordingly, the way Sandra might have, I wore a blue sweater, gray jeans and whatever my best sneakers were. Had I worn any dressy shoes, my mom would’ve caught it and instigated further of why I was so dressed up for the library at 11am on a Saturday. I tried to make myself look a bit more polished than usual, since I didn’t want to be asked if my parents were with me. I figured a dab of clear lipgloss would do the trick.
