Out Alone

Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942), oil on canvas.

I went out for breakfast alone—for the first time. I was never going to do it, but for some reason, I felt a vortex of inevitability infiltrate my lonely subconscious. I am glad this feeling overtook me, because now I can tell you all I learned—about myself and about the fate of the world. 

I’d always avoided solo dining. Yet that day—no friends available, ever hungrier, stir crazy—it was practically the only option. I made sure to sit where no one could see me, afraid that if they did they would judge me. Facing the wall, I ate two pancakes, a bowl of fruit, and hard boiled eggs (i can’t eat eggs if they aren't boiled, the stench is killer.) There was something about this solitude, looking out into the distance, wondering how far is far, thinking to myself: why haven’t I done this before? Oh right, I was scared of being judged. The pancakes were good, evenly cooked and warm with the maple syrup. The fruit was ripe and sweet, all was how it was supposed to be. Although I couldn’t see what people were doing (again they were facing my back) I am pretty sure no one actually cared—too preoccupied in their discussion on the latest campus hook-up.  

It is not a good feeling to be termed an untouchable by others—and worse, by oneself. In Status Anxiety, journalist-philosopher Alain de Botton writes: “Beneath our flaws, there are always two driving forces: fear and the desire for love.” Botton considers every life defined by two love stories: one, “a quest for sexual love, is well documented.” But, “The second—the story of our quest for love from the world—is a more secret and shameful tale.”

This reminds me how Americans were always lonely; even lonelier now. The 1990 Gallup Poll found only 33% of US adults had 10+ close friends, while a 2021 survey finds just 13% now have 10+ close friends. Performing such lovelessness is a solo diner’s worst dread: eating alone shows nobody likes me. 

Growing up in a Mexican family of seven I never did anything by myself, let alone eat. By contrast, America is atomized, which has pluses-and-minuses. There’s more loneliness, but also more opportunities abound for serendipitous encounters—for those who can overcome their fear of appearing alone.

MY SOLITUDINOUS FRIEND, with apparently dozens of restaurant-dining friends, eats breakfast alone almost daily—not fast food, but in actual restaurants. He travels the country, visiting small towns to eat alone. When I tried to join, he refused—traveling with friends means he can’t meet new people. 

I went to ShakeShack the other day. Pre-pandemic, even I would have dined there alone, chatting with staff, exchanging clothing compliments with other diners (a/k/a future friends). Now I ordered online, and with a mask mask, darted inside to quickly get my burger. Eating in the cold, I realized what I’d (and perhaps the world) lost: chances of intimacy.

I am reminded of a Pre-pandemic time when I visited Denny’s with eight friends. Packing a table meant for four, in age-old teenage fashion, we looked degenerate. But we enjoyed what meant so much to us in our pre-pandemic closeness: a feast of 30 sausages and 20 pancakes.

We weren’t just hanging out; we were performing intimacy. To rediscover intimacy in a Covid-endemic world, we might all benefit from the courage to dine alone—together.