DUALITY, ETC
Welcome back to #EmerilHive, a weeklyish newsletter by Becca Thimmesch. Have you subscribed?
I’m coming down from the high of a two-week friendship bender. After a six month tolerance break, fate deigned to bring me two best friends over the Solway-Tweed line for a fortnight of pure, uncut fun.
Only there’s not a lot to do these days. Obviously you can like, dabble in the art of conversation, but the present situation prevents a lot of regular fun stuff like bars or movies or bowling. As a result, the days wind up revolving around anywhere from three to five carefully-planned meals. Like, really carefully planned. Like, scrolling Resy for hours planned, minus one blessed weekday stroll by Padella that yielded a free outdoor table.
But when you’re in good company, even the most rigid dinner plans can feel carefree. Who cares about a 90-minute reservation when you’re sharing castelvetrano olives and bottles of wine with your friends, your laughter (but hopefully not your droplets) cascading over the plexiglass surrounding your table.
Oh my GOD I missed sharing a meal with my friends.
I, like most of my demographic counterparts, used to go out multiple times a week for SATC-feeling group meals with the ladies in my life. My Venmo profile tells the tale of a glamorous urbanite, splitting happy hours and dinners and paying friends back for brunches via dozens of pithily-captioned transactions. And what fun!
But in a search for Vietnamese options with outdoor dining (there were none), I was struck by the memory of something I’ve willed myself to forget: eating alone in a restaurant, completely at peace. Fluorescent lighting optional.
Just as a part of me loves to cackle over shared appetizers, a part of me needs to sit by myself in a Pret a Manger or a strip mall pho restaurant and eat in silence while I look at my phone.
And truly, there’s nothing better.
Outdoor solo dining doesn’t have the same neurotic panache. It’s too effortlessly glamorous, too Carrie Learning She Doesn’t Need a Man. Outdoor solo dining is the sort of thing you do in a gorgeous shawl, an it-book tucked in one hand as you design the perfect bite of grain bowl in the other.
What I’m talking about is the kind of dining where like, you’d rather die than run into one of your nemeses. Like, when you’ve just ordered 10 bean papusas or you have Bún Bò Huế all over your face and also your shirt. Maybe you’re wearing multiple shades of gray and maybe you’re getting dipping sauce on your phone. Who’s to say!
When I was in high school, I ate alone at Pho Royal so often that they’d laugh and say, "look who brought company!” when I showed up in a group. Which might be embarrassing, if I was embarrassed. But I believe that sitting down to eat alone is the kindest thing I can do for myself.
And I don’t know when I’ll be able to do that safely anytime soon. The part of my brain that feeds on it is running on empty.
But the part of my brain that needs friendship and love and wheezing laughter is, for the first time in a long time, overflowing. So that’s good.
Another Week
I let myself go on vacation mode and had approximately ten dozen coffees a day. I ate thick cut chips between bouts of rain and drank a gorgeous Beaujolais at my favorite place in the world, Gordon’s Wine Bar. I got turned away at Dishoom but it’s probably fine because their outdoor dining was looking a little indoor to me. I started Hacks on HBO, which is not only excellent but is tremendous Madewell Emmett Pant representation. I flew too close to the sun and made a big sandwhich out of some sort of wreath baguette, and it was nuts.
Emeril Update
Not much is new, although I did find this for future travels, or in case you live in Mississippi.