Eating alone is living for yourself

The first time I ate alone on purpose was three weeks after a breakup.

Back then I turned down every dinner invitation. Watching couples across a table felt like a punishment. But a person still has to eat. One night I was too hungry to ignore it and didn't want takeout, so I cooked myself a proper meal: a clay pot of tomato and beef brisket, white rice, a bowl of greens in broth, and half a glass of wine poured for me. I carried it to the table, set it out, spread a cloth, and lit a candle. Then I laughed at myself. Wasn't this a bit much?

It wasn't. That meal was unlike any I'd eaten in months. No phone, no conversation, every bite actually tasted. The brisket had stewed softer than usual and the wine was better than usual. Near the end I understood something: when I ate with other people, what I was really eating was the atmosphere. This time I was eating the food itself, and keeping myself company.

From that night on, eating alone became a regular thing, twice a week.

I gave it a few small ceremonies. Cook properly, plate properly, eat properly. The phone goes somewhere out of reach. The table can hold a book, an episode of a show I've been saving for months, or nothing at all. The food doesn't compromise. Even a single stir-fried green needs a hot pan and hot oil so it comes out with wok breath. A friend once dropped by unannounced and caught me eating solemnly at a table full of dishes. She teased me: whose birthday is it? I asked her to sit and added a bowl and chopsticks. She said, "The way you eat, it's like you're looking after someone very important."

I said, "I am. That person is me."

Eating alone isn't the opposite of making do. It's the most direct statement of the belief that I deserve to eat well. People who fob themselves off with food tend to fob themselves off with their lives too.

After a few years of practice I've boiled it down to a few rules. First, don't use eating alone as an excuse to settle. The more alone you are, the more you should plate the food, heat the soup, and use the nicer bowl. Whatever capital you put into your life, life pays back. Second, don't eat with a phone in your hand. Eating deserves your full attention, and it doubles as practice in paying attention. Third, learn a few dishes you'd serve to guests, not for guests but for the nights you want to treat yourself and need something ready. Fourth, allow yourself the occasional sloppy meal. Eating alone is freedom, not an assignment. Instant noodles are fine, as long as you eat them without apologizing.

Over the years the scenes have multiplied. A bowl of plain noodles after overtime. A bento in a hotel room on a business trip. Morning tea for one in a city I was passing through. None of it feels bleak anymore. The ability to eat well alone is, at bottom, the ability to be good company for yourself, and it has paid off in my relationships since. After my partner and I moved in together, I kept one or two solo dinners a week. He didn't understand at first. Eventually he did: "You have to feed yourself first before you can eat well with me."

What I love most now is a Sunday evening, cooking a table for myself. Two meat dishes, one vegetable, one soup, laid out, a bottle of sparkling water opened, and a toast to me. To a person who makes a good life out of ordinary days, and who deserves to be fed with care.