Funny Things that Happen while Eating Alone (in Paris)
I recently spent a week alone in Paris as a vacation. I didn’t study abroad in college, and traveling a foreign country alone felt like something I should experience. So, I set out with some loose goals: to enjoy a city that I love; to settle into a routine and feel comfortable in my surroundings, and; to eat as much delicious food as humanly possible. Before this trip, I’d never dined solo at a table in a nice restaurant (airports don’t count.) I knew that would be a challenge, but I definitely didn’t anticipate everything that happened. I learned a lot, and dealt with the unexpected. The hardest part? No one to casually laugh it off with when the unexpected happened.
Other (American) diners and “camaraderie.” I went to the early seating at most dinners; seemed safer than dining solo too late. (Many Paris restaurants schedule two seatings; one at 7pm, and another at 9:30.) The French eat late. Americans on the other hand… there’s no escaping. Most were lovely. One couple insisted on calling me “San Francisco” and screaming loudly from their seats at the far corner of the bar. This netted me bartender sympathy and two free cocktails, so maybe I shouldn’t complain.
Weird service. Some places were spectacular, but a few were just… off. At one spot, I felt as if I couldn’t eat and get out the door fast enough. I finished one glass of wine and nearly fell off of my chair flagging the waiter to order a second. At another spot, the waiter didn’t look me in the eye, once. And at another, when I casually mentioned wanting to finish with a cheese plate, instead of asking me my preference among the six options, the waiter took it upon himself to (quickly) present three. (They were good, just not what I wanted.)
Ordering fails. I know that riz d’agneau means lamb sweetbreads, I really do. But somewhere between navigating a tasting menu printed in French and speaking to the staff entirely in French, my fried-from-translating brain expected lamb risotto. (riz means rice, too.) The main course came, I looked surprised, the waitress immediately explained, in English, what the words meant. I turned red and chugged my pinot. The sweetbreads were delicious. I will also never make that mistake again.
Wine anxiety. I know my way, within reason, around a carte des vins, but I’m less familiar with the gustatory intricacies of French wine. So, asking the waiter, particularly one of the less-engaged variety, to pair wines for you nets some nervousness. Are they giving me crap and laughing when I say it’s good? Thankfully, most by-the-glass menus are quite short, so unless they’re pouring some sort of house concoction, it’s at least legit. (This happens to other people, right?)
“Are you a reviewer?” Two different waiters asked me, point blank, if I was a restaurant blogger or reviewer. Maybe I would have gotten better service if I lied. Though I certainly did appreciate the second dessert one waiter gifted me after insisting I try it. Maybe he thought I was? (I am not.)
The over-order. Shareable plates are popular. Most places recommend two to three dishes per person. This is not enough dishes! So you bite the bullet and order four, or five. Chances are they show up in quick succession, filling your table or bar space and grabbing the attention of plenty of other non-solo patrons. Additionally, beware late-season Utah Beach oysters from Normandy — as big as your fist and nearly as deep — that are sold only as six pieces. That was a particular challenge.
Strange compliments. “You did a really good job,” and, “That was impressive.” Thanks? To be fair, I am also proud of the six-course tasting menu plus pairings and cognac that I put down last Saturday night… so? Luckily this was at the scene of the Sweetbreads Incident, so hopefully they remember me as “the American woman who ate the whole menu” and not “the American woman who mis-ordered offal.”
Living in constant fear I’ve forgotten my wallet. At least once per dinner, I panicked that I left my wallet in another bag, or in my room, or somewhere that wasn’t on my person. What happens if you can’t pay for dinner in France? Glad I didn’t have to find out.
Resisting and resisting and resisting the urge to just eat at the restaurant downstairs at my hotel. There’s something to be said for familiarity, especially in a foreign place. I ate breakfast pastries and drank cappuccinos at the same cafe each morning, but forced myself to try different places for each lunch and dinner. I repeated one restaurant: Vivant Cave. I regret nothing.
A huge merci to Vivant Cave, Bones, Little Red Door, and Clamato for being especially wonderful to visit as a solo lady in Paris.
