The Art of Eating Alone
& becoming comfortable in your own company
The Art of Eating alone
The Hopeless Romantic in me loves eating alone— only when I have no one to eat with. Good company will always make a meal better, but every so often we find ourselves alone, usually in a foreign place whether it’s close to home or not, eating alone.
Over time, eating alone has become an art form in itself. Sometimes it’s a bar seat at an old bistro in Paris with a rude waiter, a glass of red and steak frites, scribbling thoughts in a notebook. Other times it’s a cramped ramen counter in Tokyo, lit by vending machines and cluttered with Hello Kitty dolls, the room filled with a language you don’t understand. Or maybe it’s a loud tapas bar in Barcelona, where the staff speak around you, not to you—but somehow, that still feels like enough.
Everyone has their way. Some give in and order room service in a robe with the TV on low. Some look for conversation at the hotel bar. Others wander the street and look for something that catches their eye. Me— I’ve done a version of them all, but my ideal? I like sitting in the corner of a dark, busy restaurant, back to a wall with a good lay of the land, ideally with a Negroni and no real plans after. I take my time, order slow, try to leave my phone in my pocket and just observe.
I count the amount of shakes each bartender makes when chilling a dirty martini. 20 seems to be the average. I pay attention to the small details of the room, the people, the music choice, the lighting. I make up stories for each person at the bar and give them backstories based purely off of how I see them interact with their environment.
I’ve always felt a deep connection to Lost in Translation. Anyone who’s spent time drifting through unfamiliar cities, especially alone, knows the quiet, aching feeling Bill Murray’s character is experiencing in the film. If you haven’t seen it, go watch it. I’ve found myself in that same space more times than I can count—traveling solo for work or on a whim, in countries where I didn’t speak the language, surrounded by strangers but still somehow isolated. Before iPhones filled every empty moment, there was this beautiful discomfort in being alone. It nudged me to explore, to observe, to lean into the silence. It pushed me to wander, to notice the little things, to let curiosity guide me instead of a map.
I enjoy the act of eating alone because it forces me to be comfortable in my own company— Something I think we all wish we were better at. So, the next time you find yourself alone in a hotel restaurant, somewhere far from home, don’t see it as a void to be filled, but as an opportunity to practice the lost art of eating alone. connect with the food, with the environment, and most importantly, with yourself.
Best post yet. I just turned 26 and the biggest skill I’ve learned since college is learning how to be alone.
Most people have no idea how to be alone. Some of most closest friends have to do every aspect of their lives with people. Photography has honestly helped enhance that ability a lot since it allows you to be observant. My family is members at LACC, and When I was in high school I often used to go out and play twilight golf alone carrying the bag of course when the course was empty.
Living in NYC now, I have eaten alone too many times to count. Nothing beats a good solo bar seat. Reservations may be full for groups 24/7 but a reassuring seat at the bar will always be there.
I find myself in a similar rhythm—sometimes having coffee with loved ones, other times sitting alone with a warm cup and a few saved articles to read. Both moments matter, but there’s something uniquely grounding about being alone and fully present. Thanks for putting words to something so many of us feel but rarely express.