A couple of years ago, I was in Tallinn for work. I didn’t want to be cooped up in the hotel the entire time so I earmarked a few spots to check out. I love solo travel but one thing I still find awkward? Eating out alone.
During a quick research sess, I came across one of Estonia’s first Michelin-starred restaurants – Noa Chef’s Hall. I had to go! I was super excited about the experience…or at least I was when I booked it. On the flight to Tallin, the second thoughts began. It’s one thing to go to a McDonalds by yourself. A cute cafe? Totally doable. But fine dining, alone? On purpose? That’s a whole new level.
It’s one thing to do McDonalds by yourself. A cute cafe? Totally doable. Fine dining, alone? That’s a whole new level.
The taxi ride to the restaurant was filled with dread. Upon arrival, the host asked if someone would be joining me. “Nope, it’s just me.” “Oh” was the response. Awkward. But then they regrouped and directed me to a table. A few minutes later though, they came back and invited me to sit at the table directly facing the kitchen and the chefs – which I’m calling the chef’s table. It was just me there. I wasn’t sure if this was a normal thing or if they just felt sorry for me, but honestly, I was glad to move because now my back was to most of the restaurant, so I didn’t feel so self-conscious and I had the best view in town.
It turned out to be one of my best dining experiences. Ever. The food was incredible, but that was never in doubt. Aside from the spectacular culinary offering, it was the warmth and kindness of the staff that made it such a special personal experience. By the second or third course, one would have thought we were long-time friends, just joking around and having a laugh. I don’t drink, so they suggested some fab alcohol-free pairings. All the headchefs (there were three at the time) each presented at least one of the courses to me, even the quietest one. I mean, he wasn’t exactly chatty, but it was a lovely gesture nonetheless (and I didn’t see them do that for any other table). I walked in full of nerves and left on a cloud. I was waxing lyrical to anyone would listen for weeks after. Pretty sure my manager was side eyeing me like “that’s not what you were there for”. Anyhoo…
Contrast that with a recent brunch experience…
This last week, I finally made it to a well-known local brunch spot that’s always packed. I tried to book the Friday before for the weekend, only to land on a waitlist. But during Easter week, I figured a non-public holiday 9:30am weekday slot might be safe. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea—it was absolutely rammed. The familiar feeling of self-consciousness crept in. I felt like everyone was staring at me, which probably wasn’t helped by the fact I was sitting there, scribbling away these notes in my journal. But hey, I was already there so I decided to lean into the moment. I ordered, tried to people-watch a little (difficult to do when you’re convinced the people you are watching are also watching you!) and continued with my scribbles.
I was already half way through the reservation time with nothing but a carrot juice and a growing sense of regret.
After a while, I noticed tables that had arrived well after me were receiving their food. I asked a waitress about my order, and she brushed me off with a “It’s probably in this next round.” Ok cool… except it was now 40 mins after my arrival. Five minutes later (I checked!), she returned—looking sheepish—saying: “Not sure what happened to your order… but if you could place it again, we’ll get it out ASAP.” I was very unimpressed. Just minutes before, she made me feel ridiculous for (correctly!) enquiring about my food. And now bonus stress: I was already half way through the reservation time with nothing but a carrot juice and a growing sense of regret. I flagged the time issue and was assured that I wouldn’t be rushed. They also offered to comp my drinks which I appreciated. One complimentary hot drink later and I was back to scribbling – slightly less hangry but still rather unimpressed overall.
To their credit, my food was out shortly thereafter and it was a decent brunch meal. I relaxed, enjoyed my food and actually ended up finishing not too long after the reservation time would have been up anyway. I only paid for my food, which I thought was good of the restaurant to offer as some places would just tell you sorry and leave it there. I’m sure it was an honest mistake. The staff were polite and genuinely apologetic once the error was discovered. It wasn’t a super solo dining experience for me though – I was already feeling exposed and the whole delay just added to my anxiety.
Solo dining is a surprisingly layered experience. It seems harmless enough, but can end up feeling more like a social experiment than a meal.
Solo dining is a surprisingly layered experience. It seems harmless enough, but can end up feeling more like a social experiment than a meal. It’s also a surprisingly intimate experience; being alone with your thoughts in a setting arguably designed for connection can feel quite intense. There are those who say that restaurants are meant to be communal spaces, arguing that the joy is in the shared experience so dining alone takes something away from that. You don’t get to share thoughts on the food, the vibe or fellow diners (although you can always make up stories about people around you… but it’s probably less fun without someone to have a giggle with). Oh and you don’t get to try other people’s meals – well, if you’re into sharing meals, that is. I’m not.
Strangely enough, it feels easier for me to eat alone when away from home – on a work trip or just travelling on my own. The anonymity can be freeing, giving one license to try something one would otherwise not in familiar settings. Try it at home and imagine your ex walks in and sees you? God forbid! That can be an uncomfortable level of exposure – it’s then not just about eating alone, but being seen to be alone in a place where you are known.
It’s a tiny act of rebellion against the idea that experiences only count when they’re shared.
That said, there’s something empowering about dining solo. It’s a tiny act of rebellion against the idea that experiences only count when they’re shared. If you can lean into it, there’s a quiet confidence in saying, “Yes, table for one.” Sometimes it leads to unforgettable nights where the chefs treat you like royalty. Other times, you’re rage-sipping green tea after a 55 minute wait for scrambled eggs and avocado in sesame oil. Either way, you learn a bit about yourself, come away with a story — and maybe develop a thicker skin (and a better brunch booking strategy).
Clearly, I’ve not mastered the art of eating alone. But I’m trying to embrace the awkward, the unexpected, and the sometimes-too-long pauses between courses. Whether it’s Michelin stars or missing orders, it’s all part of the adventure. And who knows? Maybe next time, I’ll bring a book instead of a journal and hopefully look mysterious enough to pull it off with zero nerves. Maybe.
So what’s your take? Would you dine solo? Have you dined solo? Share in the comments below.
- Featured photo – Honeymoon at the Hakone Kowakien Ten-yu
- Tallinn photos – 48 Hours in Tallinn
- Pizza Photos – La Dolce Vita in Sardinia
