The Night I Learned the Value of Dining Alone!

The restaurant shimmered like a greenhouse after dark—tall windows, cascading plants, candlelight dancing across white linen. The air buzzed with soft conversation, forks chiming against porcelain.

“Reservation for one,” I said, steady and unapologetic.

The host smiled—no hesitation, no pity—and guided me to a window-side table. Outside, the city moved gently: headlights weaving, a florist’s display glowing across the street, a couple walking their dog in quiet rhythm. The table was angled perfectly. I could watch the world without feeling watched. My shoulders eased.

The server arrived with water and a basket of bread I’d read about in reviews. I ordered a glass of Albariño, a fennel and orange salad, and the halibut that diners had called “life-changing.” Hyperbole, maybe—but curiosity won.

I pulled out a book but didn’t open it. Instead, I listened. A couple debated the suburbs. A woman at the bar laughed with a bartender who remembered her drink. In the kitchen, chefs moved like choreographers, plates emerging like polished gems.

The Request

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