A How-To Guide for Solo Date Night

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED FOR BUZZFEED

I am a self-proclaimed soloist. I love spending time alone. Boyfriends come and go (mostly go, for me), but the time I dedicate to the relationship I have with myself is constant.

My specialty is being alone in public. As someone who is passionate about productivity, I find I'm fidgety sitting at home and am always looking for something to do. I like to set myself out in the world, where I can be alone but not lonely. I go everywhere — from museums and movies to bookstores and record shops. But no aspect of my solitude gets more attention from friends and encounters than my dedication to solo dining.

It began innocently enough. I lived in a city with hundreds of restaurants to try and not nearly enough contacts whose culinary curiosity matched my own. So, I began taking myself out to dinner. It was casual at first — a meal here, a meal there — and then it wasn’t. As the list of attractive destinations grew and so did my calendar of obligations, I found the need to bring formality to my practice.

For three odd years now, I’ve perched myself on a bar stool every Thursday night for an indulgent meal, on what I call Solo Date Night (SDN). I venture to a new restaurant each week: some that have made recent headlines, some that have come by suggestion, and some that have piqued my interest in passing. I’ve indulged in burgers, sushi, tacos, and pizza (obviously). I’ve explored refined French, Indian gastro, and contemporary Mexican. I’ve conversed with neighbors and tourists, and have sat inches from celebrities. I’ve gone home with many a bartender (whoops).

The satisfaction I get from SDN isn’t just in the food, albeit good. It's in the immense pleasure of experiencing something new, and having that experience be mine and mine alone. It's in the intense thrill of the uncertainty of the hours ahead. It's in the freedom to be whoever I want to be, for just a night.

But no matter the restaurant, the regimen stays the same. I’ve created a framework for this magical night of the week that, over time, has come to define the experience and separate it from any passive (solo) dinner. These parameters transform what would otherwise be an ordinary meal into a treasured, nourishing act of self-care.

If you decide to venture out on your own SDN, here are the tricks of the trade. Just don’t steal my seat.

1. Pick a night that is lively, but not nightlife-y. In New York, even the bar stools at most places are occupied on Friday and Saturday eves, so best to select a day of the week where you won’t have a wait. At the same time, a sleepy Monday, just after everyone’s spent their paychecks on weekend romps, won’t offer the sort of people watching or chance encounter you’re after. Find a night somewhere in between and call it your own.

2. Always sit at the bar. A table for one can feel lonely without distraction (more on that later), but a seat at the bar offers the possibility of companionship and conversation. In many restaurants, it may even offer an eye into the workings of the kitchen. Who needs Food Network when you have a front-row ticket to what’s on the line?

3. Put down your devices. No seriously, put them down. In the elevator, in the conference room, on the sidewalk, at traffic lights, when a date gets up to go to the bathroom…when was the last time you weren’t on your phone? It’s not the emails that are calling us — those can wait — it’s the anxiety. And a few hours without connection to anything but yourself will do a lot of good. If you didn’t Instagram it, it still happened — I promise.

4. Leave your books at your bedside. I love nestling into a corner café with back issues of The New Yorker, or spreading out in a booth to read the Sunday paper. That’s not what this is. SDN is the time to focus on nothing but the food on your plate, the environment that surrounds you, and the thoughts in your head. To distract yourself with material of any kind would be taking away from your ability to be present, observe, and absorb. You may be approaching the riveting climax of The Heart’s Invisible Furies, but to pay attention to John Boyne is to be on a date with him instead.

5. Ask for recommendations. Menus are seductive, and I love admiring their every detail — from the design to the descriptive complexities of each dish. Yet, on SDN, I free myself from the responsibility to make a decision of any sort, apart from the destination, and simply ask the staff: “So, what’s the move?” You’ll find you’re not only pleasantly surprised by items you may not have ordered on your own accord, but you learn much about wine, flavor, pairing, and preparation in the process.

6. Let go of dietary constraints. At age 15, I discovered the South Beach Diet. At age 20, I began restricting my calorie intake. And between the ages of 25 and 28, I tried everything — juicing, Paleo, and all their little friends, in an attempt to acquire the ‘perfect’ body. Screw all that. Now I eat as I please, with intent, and there’s no day I do this more than Thursdays. Of course, if you have intolerance to gluten or an allergy to shellfish, adhere to those restrictions. But, as much as you’re able, I encourage you to order with your heart, not your head.

7. Come as you are. Not every Thursday starts well, and sometimes I pull up my seat with heavy thoughts that require the remedy of a few rounds. That’s OK. SDN is about embracing the moment, however high or low it may be. Feeling on top of the world? Great. Ask them to fill your glass of champagne to the tippy top. Feeling as if the world is crashing in? Skip the entrées and go straight for a sampling of desserts. Whatever your mood, I guarantee there’s an order for that. 🍽✨

Solo Date Night

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED FOR ATELIER DORÉ

Yes, just me.

At one time, these three words were merely a statement of clarification at a restaurant. Now, they are a statement of my identity.

You see, I take myself out to dinner every week, on what my Google Calendar has come to know as SDN: Solo Date Night, and I do it with intense dedication and commitment. I have an organized Excel spreadsheet with the restaurants I want to visit; I block out three evening hours every Thursday; I turn down plans with friends, as I would for any Bumble date.

And I don’t order a quick burger and a beer, like I’m just passing through; I don’t read a book or endlessly scroll through emails; I don’t plug my headphones in to catch up on my podcast queue. I sit, without phone or other distraction, religiously and routinely for a good chunk of time; I order a cocktail and a few glasses of wine, sometimes even a digestif, and a cup of (decaf) coffee; I order a starter and a main, and maybe even a dessert. (Ok, yes, dessert. Definitely dessert.) I treat myself. I luxuriate.

I’ve had an eighteen-course omakase and innumerable tasting menus at Michelin-starred restaurants; I’ve dined across the U.S., UK, Europe, Asia, and South America; I’ve met celebrities and made friends with strangers; I’ve had dinners that have turned into dances, and then breakfasts. Yes, Dad and future employers, this means I’ve had one-night stands. I have been countlessly mistaken for a food critic (and thus received countless discounts) and I have embarrassingly, but rewardingly, disguised myself as a stylist, a teacher, and a philanthropist.

Why? I promise it’s not because I’m incapable of social interaction. In fact, as my 30th birthday and sixth year living in New York approach, I finally have a rich and fulfilling social life. ‘Bout damn time. Rather, it’s because it has become my form of self-care, my ‘me’ time. While some get theirs in the gym (I do that too, because you know, of all the eating) or the spa, or a stroll around the city, I get mine from restaurants.

My solo dining experience began several years ago, when I traveled frequently for work and had to do so out of circumstance. These times were not my finest: they were comprised of alarmingly high room service charges, the company of cable television, and an unfashionable terrycloth robe. Too intimidated to ask for a table for one in a city unknown to me, I opted for direct delivery to my hotel room, but it wasn’t long until I learned ‘no shame, no gain.’ Here I was in beautiful foreign countries and continents (Ohio counts, right?) and I was wasting what little opportunity I had to explore on an over-priced, crappy meal, confined to the inside of a Holiday Inn. So, I ventured out, with my discomfort and insecurities in tow.

I won’t pretend to remember where my first meal alone took place, nor what I ate, but I will never forget those early feelings. They were a full-body sensation: racing thoughts, heated chest, clammy hands, and fidgety legs. I was, quite literally, uncomfortable in my own skin. Embracing being alone meant inviting criticism. I was convinced everyone around me was not only aware of my lonesomeness, but judging it. I could feel their stares, and their assessments broke my heart before I’d even ordered my appetizer.

But being alone is a muscle, and the more you work it, the better it gets. Over time, I realized that my presence wasn’t even on the radar of most, and the real critic was me, not them. (Ain’t that a useful insight.) And once eating alone in other towns became a piece of cake, it was much easier to do on my home turf. Three years ago, I made my dating relationship with New York restaurants official, and we’ve been going steady ever since.

One of the more memorable meals was from the two-person team at the twelve-seat Take Root. (Sadly, it is now closed.) I embarked on a $125 tasting menu, promptly at 8PM, and devoured all 12 courses. Among just 11 other diners, there is no avoiding eavesdropping and intimacy. I was as much a part of their experience, as they were mine, and I left feeling oddly connected to total strangers. Or, there was my date at Union Square Café, where I’m confident a single bar stool is the best spot in the house. I indulged in their flagship bacon, cheddar and brioche burger, and mushroom sformato: a new-to-me sort of soufflé, all amidst the chaos and commotion that is a restaurant in bustling central Manhattan. Or, there are my repeat visits to the treasured Italian restaurant, I Sodi, in the West Village, where I’ve witnessed others wait hours to score a spot in their teeny tiny quarters… but, not me. I can slide right in. (I think this is where I say nanny, nanny, boo boo?)

Would I and could I have enjoyed these experiences with company? Absolutely. But, I don’t, and that is precisely the point. My solo practice is a choice, and one entirely separate from my relationship status. I may get a boyfriend—dear God and internet, let it be known, I sincerely hope that I do—but the most important relationship I have is, and will always be, the one I have with myself (thank you, Queen von Furstenberg). That doesn’t mean I don’t have the same basic, human desires to be loved and appreciated, adored and needed, and to have my needs met as everyone else—I do. (And by needs, I mean the occasional intercourse and the frequent hug—I’m really not asking for a whole lot here, folks.) I certainly hope some day I meet a being with whom I can share my life and many adventures. But, it’s actually precisely this desire that pulls me back to my dedicated practice of dining alone. It is through this unfiltered, unpressured, undistracted time that I’m able to intimately get in touch and in tune with myself, to nurture what will ultimately make me a better partner, and a better friend, sister, daughter, and businesswoman.

To pay my rent, I am a marketing consultant for companies in the food and wellness spaces. I spend most of my time helping others understand themselves, to help them make meaningful connections in the world. And as a result, I am always on the pulse of trends, news, and pop culture. I’m bombarded every day by a barrage of messages about things I should care about—GMOs! Adaptogens! Kerry started a live video!—and ‘need’—a jade roller! Detoxifying powder! Microcurrent facials! (Ok, these are actually great.) Quite frankly, without a few hours every week to myself, away from Instagram, I might go insane. It’s become almost critical for me to step away, reflect, assess, and guide myself back to what really matters, without the weight and influence of everything around me.

If someone asked me tomorrow to give up this little ole practice o’ mine, it’d be a big ole deal.  In a time where I find myself committed to so many things—work, health, relationships, and other responsibilities—I have found it equally important and rewarding to commit to myself. Solo Date Night is a consistent and frequent way for me to zero in on my thoughts, needs and desires—a meditation, if you will. And, it is a way for me to practice the person I want to be in the world. Heavy for a bit about eating food? Maybe, but it’s true. Catch me on a Thursday night and you’ll find me in my best form: kind, confident, excited, interested, spontaneous, and vulnerable. I may spend twenty minutes discussing the available varieties of red wine with the bartender; I may decide upon 3 dishes to taste, only to enthusiastically order a 4th and a 5th, on a whim; I may divulge dating woes with the young couple perched on the bar stools next to me. I forego calorie counting and all other usual limitations, and lean in to pleasure and possibility.

I look forward to Thursday every Monday. It is the axis on which my world turns. I am excited by all the decisions and uncertainties it holds. I enjoy picking the neighborhood according to what mood I’m in or want to create, or perhaps the sort of people I want to meet or avoid. I love picking the perfect outfit, and find I am more confident in my selections when dressing completely for myself. Heck, I even wear mascara and perfume, which I otherwise reserve for special occasions. And then, there are the things I don’t know that are something to be excited about, like who I’ll meet or how much I’ll enjoy the food or what new flavors I’ll discover. The night is an enticing mystery, of my sole creation.

But, more than anything, Solo Date Night has become a significant part of who I am because it serves as a regular exercise in presence. Not only does it connect me further with myself, but with my environment. I am forced to observe and absorb my surroundings with great attention to detail. I can draw you the tattoos on the chef at Hemlock, or the light fixtures at Estela. I can describe the intensity and perplexity of the makhan malai, with saffron milk, rose petal brittle, and almond at Indian Accent. And, of course, I can tell you which restaurants have the most handsome, charismatic bartenders to entertain you (cough, Flora Bar, cough).

SDN has taught me to focus and filter, to drown out the voice of my own internal critic, and make myself to available to experiences with those around me. The seemingly simple act of feeding myself a luxurious meal once a week has given me immeasurable joy and a renewed sense of independence. It has given me uninterrupted, 100% selfish time with myself: time that is a true commodity, as it becomes more and more the luxury of our generation.

Whether you scoff at the thought of doing anything that doesn’t require a minimum party of two, or you’re a certified solo globe trotter, I’m here to tell you it’s not just OK, or alright, but a choice that should be celebrated—to go out and experience the world and not wait for anyone to join you, to take the time for yourself and to not feel guilty, to just get away from it all from time to time—and to explore how investing in your relationship with yourself is ultimately an investment in every other aspect of your life, empowering you to charge ahead with clarity and intent.

So, yes, just me. Please.

A Girl Abroad: Finding Peace, Simplicity, and Rituals in Italy

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED FOR THE STYLE LINE

It was a bartender who told me to go to Puglia. As a frequent solo diner back home in New York, I am in the habit of taking recommendations from them, actually. But this time, I was on #RemoteMonth in London, and with my new friend, I’d entered into an intriguing conversation about his hometown: a place he described as having no market for a swanky cocktail bar like the one I found myself in; a diverse region with beautiful beaches, olive groves, vineyards, and kind, genuine Italian people.

When the time came to book my month abroad the next year, I embarked on an internet search of Puglia. To my dismay, apart from an Instagram photo of Polignano a Mare by @goop (eye roll) and a handful of articles highlighting the ‘must-see’ towns: Lecce, the  ‘Florence of the South,’ Alberobello, home to the trulli, and Bari, what my colon therapist calls the ‘Bronx of Italy,’ I couldn’t find much. Nonetheless, I booked my flight and first Airbnb and made my way to the stiletto of Italy’s boot.

After a week, I settled in a small town called Nardo, just off the western coast in the region of Salento. And I must admit, I was initially disappointed. Nardo is not a perfect town. It is rough around the edges, with its eclectic mix of Baroque architecture and neglected buildings. And its historic center is small, lacking the concentration of shops and restaurants I’d become accustomed to in my visits to Tuscany. I feared I’d made the wrong choice.

But it wasn’t long before I found great pleasure in this ‘unspoilt’ little place. There was little to no English spoken, anywhere; I was one of the only, if not the only, American tourists there; it was a short drive to an array of breathtaking beaches; and the little old ladies who perched just outside their homes, gossiping, gave me sneers I came to seek. I spent my days well balanced between a few hours of morning work, a few hours of afternoon sunning, and a couple hours of evening dining.

As I shared my days on Instagram Stories, the messages poured in.

“You’re literally living my dream.”

“#Goals”

“I am LIVING for your Italian posts.”

“Oh, girl. Italy looks gooood on you.”

Why, I thought, were my days, as simple and repetitive as they were, so highly covetable? Like clockwork, I cut fresh fruit for breakfast, read a book in the sunshine, and had a glass of wine on the patio… and I did this nearly every day. For a month.

Less the sea, my Italian activities were no different from those I could do in the comfort of my studio apartment in America. There is a plethora of fruit available at my local bodega, a myriad of books at my neighborhood bookstore, and an obnoxious assortment of wine at my corner (natural/bio/organic!) shop.

I recorded this note in my phone: “why do we dream of simplicity, when it’s so attainable?”

And then, the 4th of July came and my lack of patriotism took me quickly back home where political turmoil pervades our everyday lives. (Oh right, that.) Where we live in a constant state of chaos, unrest, and uncertainty. Where we wake up unsure which human right will be taken, which race, community, or religion will be offended, which calamitous change to our future will take place.   

We live in a time where perhaps routine is more sacred than ever. Where ritual is safety.

So as I leave this #RemoteMonth behind and return to my life in the city, I am taking with me a few ways in which I can translate the bliss of my routine Italian existence to my everyday reality, and maybe you can too:

1. Establish balance by creating boundaries around the things that bring you the most joy. For me, this meant prioritizing a lunchtime swim and an elongated dinner, scheduling 4 hours of uninterrupted work in the morning when I’m most productive, and calls with clients in the in-between.

2. Define a routine that involves people in the neighborhood—of diverse age and background—and builds community. For me, this meant visiting the same salumeria for my meat and cheese, the same café for aperitivo, and the same beach for a dip (and a caffè crema, yum)… every day.

3. Reduce, simplify, and get back to basic pleasures. To me, this equated to bringing a carry-on sized bag with few outfits, eating more or less the same uncomplicated foods, cancelling all streaming services, and limiting my exercising to scenic walks.

It is fitting that this morning I stumbled upon this quote: “The success of your future is hidden in your daily routine.” Here’s to hoping we may all find peace and promise in the comfort of our routine activities, at home or abroad.