Table for one

“My name is Giacomo,” he said. He handed me the wine list, his eyes twinkling.

It was the beginning of a lovely slow-dance-of-a-meal at a charming trattoria on a quiet side street in Rome. I had asked the front-desk manager at my hotel to a make a dinner reservation for me. And this was the place he chose.

Giacomo, who had lived in Ireland and England for a while, spoke beautiful English. “I forgot a lot,” he said apologetically. “All I talk about now is spaghetti.” That made me laugh.

When I arrived, Giacomo didn’t seat me at a table in the corner behind a potted plant or in front of a constantly swinging kitchen door or worse, by a smelly bathroom. I was his first guest of the evening and he was expecting me. The best table was mine.

Later on, when a group of Canadian women sat down nearby, Giacomo introduced me to them. “My friend Rebecca,” he said. They thought I was a regular and asked what wine I’d recommend. I smiled at Giacomo. “You should ask the best waiter in Rome.”

At my request, Giacomo had taken charge of the preparation of my pasta-to-be-determined carbonara. The pasta choices were dizzying, so I said to him, “You choose. I trust you — totally.” Giacomo smiled and refilled my wine glass.

Moments later, he returned with a plate of delicately fried zucchini blossoms. “With my compliments,” he said.

He waited as I took a bite. “This is the best flower I’ve ever eaten,” I said.

“That’s because it’s from me.” He smiled. “Very romantic.”

Dinner served by Giacomo began with flourish and flirtation and ended with his assurance, “You will be back. This is not good-bye.”

In my solo travels, I have dined alone many nights. Or at least I start out dining alone. If the tables are close together, sometimes I end up chatting with the people next to me, though I’m careful not to intrude. One evening in a crowded village restaurant in Provence, a local couple at the next table offered me a glass of wine. By the end of the evening, we were like old friends. A few nights later, I was dining at their house.

I always have my journal with me and enjoy jotting at the table. One night at a Paris bistro, I decided to write on the paper tablecloth. The waiters were concerned about covering up my work, so to their amusement, I drew circles where the plates and glasses should go. I was experiencing such a rush of inspiration that at one point shortly after the appetizer was served, I heard the head waiter shout to the chef, “Arrêtez! Madame écrit!” (Stop! Madame is writing!) The main course arrived just as I laid down my pen.

I returned to that bistro every night of my visit. I had the same table by the front window, with a view of a gallery across the street where a Chagall was on display. On my last night, when I said good-bye, the waiters were genuinely sad to see me leave.

I had a similar experience in Nice, where I found a wonderful Mexican restaurant a block from my hotel. By now you know how much I love margaritas, which didn’t escape the attention of the owner. On my second visit, before I had a chance to order, he served me a margarita, lightly salted. “The way you like it,” he said with a smile. I became a regular. On my last night, instead of giving me the usual complimentary after-dinner shot of tequila, he put the whole bottle in front of me. I have fond memories of that cantina on the Riviera and the stories my waiter told me of his father, a famous Mexican poet.

Sometimes you have the most fun at a table for one.

 

 

Photo credit (top left): Kurt Hutton, “Café Solo”