There is a particular kind of freedom that reveals itself only when you sit down at a table for one. Not the rushed solo lunch between meetings. Not the takeaway eaten absent-mindedly on a bench. I mean the deliberate act of walking into a restaurant alone, choosing a seat, opening a menu and deciding that your own company is enough.
I rediscovered that freedom in Athens on a grey afternoon during Storm Byron. The city felt heavy and waterlogged, but I had been wandering for hours, letting myself drift without purpose. At around four I ducked into a place I had never heard of. A small tapas bar with Cretan roots and Basque influences that reviewers swore was authentic, which already felt intriguing. I had not planned anything. I simply chose it because it looked warm and alive and because some days you need randomness to remind you that life is generous.
I sat alone. I ordered alone. And I pretended, as I often do lately, that I was a celebrated food critic even though I am an unremarkable cook and always second guess my ability to distinguish flavours. Still, something in me has grown hungry for the unknown. For surprise. For meals that disrupt routine.
What arrived on my table was simple and perfect. A dish spiced with boukovo that carried heat without aggression, topped with a thin slice of lemon that I squeezed so clumsily I almost laughed at myself. The texture was unbelievable. The kind of food that interrupts your thoughts and makes you pay attention. The kind of food that can shift your whole day by existing.
I chose one thing I would normally cook at home and one thing I had never tried before. This is my new rule for eating out alone. A familiar anchor and a leap of faith. Drinks are personal, but a beer rarely fails and that afternoon it was exactly right.
Around me the restaurant moved with a soft rhythm. Two men were day drinking, laughing so loudly at times that I could feel their joy from across the room. The staff wandered about in that casual European way, unhurried and observant. At one point a waiter approached my table with a tape measure which made no sense at all and delighted me even more. The floor tiles were beautiful. The light was golden despite the storm. It felt hidden and random and quietly perfect.
Eating alone lets you witness these small episodes that you miss in the company of others. It invites a different type of attention. You hear the clatter of plates more clearly. You notice the way a dish smells before you taste it. You read a mystery novel with the rain knocking on the windows and feel the world narrowing in the best possible way. You observe people without becoming part of their story. And most importantly, you become present in your own.
We treat solo dining as something to be embarrassed about. Something to be done only out of necessity. Yet the moments that stay with us often come from the courage to do things alone. That afternoon in Athens I had one of the best meals of my life not only because the food was extraordinary but because I allowed myself the space to enjoy it without distraction. I allowed myself to be a person who chooses joy on a random Tuesday at four in the afternoon.
We should all eat alone more often. We should allow ourselves too remember that our own company can be warm and surprising and enough.
And sometimes, if we are lucky, a perfect meal will meet us there.