“Table for one, please,” I told the hostess with the seemingly genuine smile. My pseudo nonchalance in my request was buoyed by the sight of two other single female diners ahead of me in line.
I followed the hostess to a table whose location I wouldn’t truly note until I was sipping my first cup of non-complimentary Jasmine tea.
I don’t dine alone often. Mostly because I like to look at/try other people’s food. And um, to have insightful, interesting conversations with said people, too, yeah. But a couple of weekdays ago, when I knew I would be downtown during lunchtime—an unusual occurrence—I did. (After getting ditched by Tool for an at-home, camera-equipment delivery, and Cathy for preschool pick-up duty of The Candy Sniffer Extraordinaire.)
My natural nosiness didn’t allow for much self-consciousness of my single-diner status, though. No, I was too busy taking in the restaurant’s layout and decor (this Chinese restaurant? Airy and spacious, with dark-wood tables), wondering what servers could be chatting about for several minutes there to the side (no idea), and if the diners to the left of me were co-workers (probably). Oh, and I also noticed that the temperature inside the restaurant was a peacoat-shedding 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Not only was I seated next to a column with a thermostat attached, my table location was also a much-traveled pathway for the many servers.
One of which brought me my food 20 minutes after ordering…
Shanghai Rice Cake With Chicken.
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