Kay Gibbons
Pauses between comments lengthen, thoughts become scarcer, there are a few sighs and some fidgeting. From the 38th floor the cityscape is softening to grey and sparkles of lights are appearing; the day-long meeting is nearly over. Thanks are offered, dates are reviewed and the meeting is declared closed. Usually, there would be a few minutes of farewells, Ingrid would go back to the hotel briefly, and then dine alone.
But this has been a milestone meeting in the project, a milestone successfully reached, and there are celebratory drinks for partners, consultants and other staff who have been struggling together on the work for over a year. This is an occasion, and a chance for staff whose contact is usually on email, or through a few words at the end of a conference call, to catch up in person.
At home Ingrid never eats out alone in the evening; she knows the delis nearby that offer good take-home meals, almost restaurant quality, and she often calls in to collect a moussaka or curry, but she never ‘eats in’. Ingrid goes happily solo to concerts or plays, but eating is different; food is meant to be shared and the sharing is more important than the meal. She believes now that, like learning a language, eating alone is much easier if you start when you are young.
When Ingrid first started travelling again by herself she tried going to restaurants alone. She studied local eating guides and received personal recommendations, and the cities she visited meant wonderful eating experiences surrounded her. Although she armed herself with the traditional weapons of a book, or more recently an iPad, and tried looking meaningfully into the distance while she ate, these meals were not fun. Ingrid’s interest in people-watching, so strong that she can barely concentrate to read in an airport or hotel lobby for fear of missing some interesting person or scene, was stifled by her discomfort and the urge to eat quickly and get away. She never stayed for dessert, her favourite part of a meal, and these dismal evenings meant she stopped trying and had missed numbers of delicious opportunities for meals and their desserts.
But a night finally arrived when Ingrid could not face another club sandwich or sad pasta in her hotel room; she wagered with herself that she would successfully dine alone. She has forgotten the stakes by now, but she won the bet. Palomino. This ‘hatted’ spot, tucked away in a plain grey street, was so understated it could easily be missed. Very high on the list of current desirable destinations, it looked approachable. In keeping with its degree of cool the staff found the perfect line between distant and welcoming, and the diners, mixed suits and arty jeans, were much too engaged at their own tables to worry about others. That evening’s success led Ingrid to become a regular at Palomino, and on an early visit one of the staff asked without prying if she were perhaps a reviewer.
In the foyer on the 38th floor, groups form and re-form, conversations start with the day’s meeting outcomes and then move to business gossip, talk of children, holidays taken and planned, theatre and of course football.
By now Ingrid should be following the front-of-house leader, in deconstructed black, to a banquette near a corner, but facing out onto the business of the restaurant. She particularly likes a spot where she can watch the working flow of the service, patrons being settled, napkins folded, water poured, and meals anticipated and presented. A sauvignon gris would soon be on the way and the miniature flowerpot of white bread placed to her left (she never chooses the rye sour dough).
With a Moët in one hand Ingrid accepts a snippet of fig and gorgonzola, wrapped in prosciutto, and joins another chatting knot where the exchange is around the choice of morning drive radio, young comedy or older conversation, talkback or not. Work thoughts are receding and noise levels rising.
At Palomino, Ingrid’s complimentary ‘taste’ would have arrived and she would be ordering her dinner. Maybe the gnocchi, with cauliflower in the dark china bowl waiting for the lidded pot of sizzling gnocchi to spoon over it, a spicy rocket salad to offset the richness? Perhaps the menu would have changed, but something just as good would have replaced it. Until dinner came she would enjoy the feel of the Riedel glass balanced in her hand and speculate about the conversations at the various tables, wondering how the day just finishing had been for the diners.
Before returning to the mingling crowd Ingrid pauses to look out over the city and reflect on the meal she could be enjoying elsewhere. Ingrid has found a comfortable place to eat alone but disappointment at missing dinner there tonight is tinged with freedom from the hesitation she experiences on each occasion. Around her, some people are saying farewell, others are laughing more loudly as they relax and take an extra drink. Just next to her someone arrives to share the view, and a male voice says, ‘I wanted to introduce myself, I was not able to get to the meeting today, but I am a newcomer here and …’ A few minutes of conversation later, the mandatory check on six degrees of separation has taken the two through quick life histories and discovered a link; they have both worked on the same project in London, but at different times, and Ingrid has recognised the name from the documents. City landmarks have been pointed out and discussed. ‘Have you chosen a football team yet? It is compulsory here, you know.’
The newcomer says, ‘I’m not sure about you, but that was not enough food for me. Could we go somewhere to eat while we talk?’ As thoughts of ‘wild strawberries with buttermilk snow, sour cherries and shortbread’ float into her head, Ingrid senses a strange feeling. Relief is creeping through her as she replies: ‘I know a place, it’s not far from here and we will still be in time for dinner, or at least for dessert and coffee.’
‘Let’s go, I’ll grab my jacket and see you at the lift.’
Tonight at least, she would not be dining alone.