Just One, and Gladly

The best meals of my life have arrived at a table set for one, and I ordered every course of them.

13 September 2026

The host says "Just one?" and the "just" hangs there like a dropped fork. Ignore it. I have eaten better alone than in most company: cacio e pepe at a Testaccio counter, the pepper still blooming, nobody talking over the first bite while it was perfect.

Company is negotiation. Someone wants to split the branzino when I came for the tripe. Someone orders a Barolo with the oysters. The soufflé arrives at the exact moment the conversation finds its stride, and you choose the conversation, because you are not a monster. Fine. But something dies in that kitchen every time.

Alone, I eat with the greed of a man with nothing to prove. Two starters, no main. Bread torn, not sliced. The anchovy eaten with fingers. A table for one is not a seat left over — it is the only seat where the food gets my whole attention, and gets it undivided.