Zagat rating: 22
It’s Friday at 4:30 pm and my stomach is in knots. I’m about to embark on my first ever dining alone experience at a restaurant that doesn’t serve frappuccinos or burritos. I’ve told a few people about my dining alone experiment (mostly to keep me accountable so I’ll actually go through with it) and have been met with overwhelmingly positive responses … followed by “You are taking a book, right?” When I tell them that one of my self-imposed rules is no book or any other props, they tell me I’m brave. Who knew that southern Italian food was brave?
I chose SPQR because I thought it would be an easy toe-in-the-water sort of place to start this eating alone business. They don’t take reservations, and I thought waiting with the beautiful and coupled-off people of Pacific Heights alone on a Friday night would be a character-building experience, a test of my mettle. But when I arrived at 6:45 there wasn’t a crowd. I walked in behind a couple who was told “You can sit at the bar now, otherwise there’s a ten-minute wait for a table.” I was told the same thing. Nice to see that the hostess suggested the bar to everyone, not just the party of one.
After a quick and lonely stint at the bar (nothing says “happy Friday” like drinking by yourself), I was shown to my table. As I perused the menu, it occurred to me that the biggest bummer about eating alone without an expense account isn’t so much the lack of company; it’s that you don’t get to steal bites from friends’ plates and thus, you sample less. So the pressure was on to order correctly. I decided to keep it simple (even though they have a nice selection of hot, cold, and fried appetizers) with just a salad, an entrée, and a dessert.
The table arrangement is pretty tight at SPQR, and I was sitting about four inches from two of San Francisco’s gayest men, who were wining it up, and regaling a spunky lady friend with tales of their recent safari to Africa and their upcoming trip to New Zealand. I tilted my head toward them invitingly to see if they might include me in their convo–“hey guys, I loved The Lion King! And I know all the words to ‘Turn Back Time!’”– but nothin’. (A straight woman would never get this type of ice-down in the Castro.) The table arrangement is designed to mimic an osteria in Rome and encourage conviviality among guests according to a review in the Chronicle, but I wasn’t feeling the love (speaking of The Lion King). Then again, I’m not sure why I expected to. Though, I think if I were with a group of friends and there was a single, well-groomed, head-leaner a few inches away, I might’ve made eye contact and tried to bring her into the conversation. But hey, it was their dinner, and maybe SPQR isn’t that kind of party.
After being shunned by the gays, I was thankful my salad came fast … and what a beauty it was: wild arugula, grapefruit, red onion, fried bread, and ricotta. Springtime on a plate. And get a load of that ricotta on top—it’s curly-cued! How do you curl ricotta? After trying to recreate this salad the next night, I had a much deeper appreciation for SPQR’s version with its perfectly cut, pith-free (the white stringy stuff under citrus peels) grapefruit slices. My home-version grapefruit was pretty darn pithy, and my ricotta was lumpy and decidedly un-curly-cued.
The server didn’t rush me through as I suspected she might, and my entrée came out a few minutes after I’d finished my salad. Now, granted, I wasn’t at, say, the state fair in Kentucky or Indiana, where a single portion could feed an entire Canadian hockey team, but I was expecting something a smidgeon larger for my $15 (just for the pasta). Still, my Amatriciana—rigatoni with guanciale, tomatoes, red onions, pecorino, and chiles—was delicious and quite flavorful. The chiles definitely added a subtle kick to the tomato-y saltiness.
As I was eating, I noticed a man who looked to be in his early sixties staring at me. Every few seconds I’d glance his way out of the corner of my eye to see if he was still staring, and every time, he was still watching me. I couldn’t figure it out … was he flirting with me? Pitying me? Did I have guanciale on my chin? He was with a woman (whose back was to me), but still he kept staring. Finally, I met his gaze and delivered an uncomfortably large smile. With that, he picked up his wine glass, raised it toward me, and gave me a slight upward nod and smile, as if to say, “Good for you, single woman. Instead of staying in to watch Sandra Bullock in Two Weeks’ Notice again on TBS, you braved this trendy Pacific Heights osteria alone on date night. Well done.”
I ordered dessert, the cocoa nib and almond milk granita with chocolate mousse and anise, even though I really wanted the ricotta fritters with orange marmalade and crema fresca. I’m ashamed to say I had no idea what granita was, but it sounded so Italian I just couldn’t pass it up. One look at it and I was sure that I was about to dive into a bowl of flavored lumps of sugar—an adult dessert-version of Count Chocula—but I didn’t really care; it was light, refreshing, and pretty darned yummy. Later I learned that granita essentially is sugar, semi-frozen with some sort of liquid, in this case, almond milk. Oh, those hedonistic Italians-cum-Pac-Heights-ers …
Overall, my single-ness at SPQR was no big deal. Minus the pity toast and me not making friends with my table neighbors, the service was friendly and not rushed, and the food was good. To be honest, this meal was a little too easy, which means next time I need to up the ante and rachet up the uncomfortable-ness a few notches. I’ve got just the place in mind … stay tuned.
More on why I eat alone.
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