Why The Hell Am I Eating Alone In San Francisco?

I’m a Southerner-turned-California Francophile who loves to cook, but loves to eat more. I could gush for hours over the tartness of a cherry, the crumbly-hot deliciousness of a freshly-baked biscuit (with real butter, thank you), or the crispy, sweet freshness of just-shucked Silver Queen corn. (Accept no substitutes.) I know my way around baked goods a little too well and I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like. And don’t even get me started on pig. Bacon, guanciale, yes, even you, lardo … I love you all. You complete me.

I’m also single and have a fantastic, but busy, job and life, which means I usually take the easy way out for most dinners at home: baked sweet potatoes, boiled eggs, oatmeal, and tablespoons of almond butter (freshly ground if that makes it any less appalling) right out of the tub. Considering I live in one of the most celebrated food cities in the world—a mere stone’s throw away from almost anything I could want, in the shadow of some of the world's best restaurants—that’s pretty pathetic.

Enjoying a nice meal, for me, has always been something you do with someone. But my friends are busy. They’ve got families, partners, and busy jobs. Schedules are hard to coordinate, and we end up having coffee or a glass of wine when we get together. The dates I go on are generally drinks-only affairs, with the occasional appearance of a cheese plate. And I only have one birthday a year (thank god) and can’t in good conscience ask everyone to pony up for Chez Panisse just because I’m a year older. So how do I experience the culinary awesomeness all the restaurants in San Francisco have to offer?

Looks like I’ll have to do it alone. There’s no other way.

I’m not talking about cafes or taquerias … I’ve got that down. Nope, this is about dining alone at an upscale Zagat-rated restaurant and sitting at a table by myself with nothing but my trusty glass of red wine to keep me company.

I’m curious to see what happens when a single woman dines alone at places that are really meant for a “plus one” … or two or three. Will I be relegated to the bar? Will the chef send me a secret, not-on-the menu dessert? Will fellow diners give me pitying looks or will they invite me in to their conversations? Or is it really all just no big whoop?

The Rules—You Knew They Were Coming
1. No props are allowed. No books, no phone to text on (though I do use my iPhone to take pics of the food), no friends to show up and rescue me an hour in to dinner.

2. I sit at a table, not the bar.

3. The restaurant is upscale, not casual. (Sorry, Chevy’s.)

4. I go on a busy date night, preferably Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.

Wish me luck. I hope you’ll be inspired to seize the food alone, too. Carpe eat-em!