Dinner for One. He Dined Alone

Will you be dining alone?

Not long ago, we spent a few nights in the beautiful city of Ravenna, Italy, which is famous for its stunning Byzantine mosaics found in several churches and buildings and are considered some of the finest examples of this art form in the world.

Ravenna was once the former capital of the Western Roman Empire and later of the Ostrogothic Kingdom. There was much to see and do in this oasis of art and history, but over the years, one thing stuck with me. I often thought about it because it taught me something. I am finally authoring an essay about a man I saw dining one evening.

I’m sure he ate there often. I would, too, if I lived in Ravenna, even if I were alone.

It was a charming trattoria, its walls glowing warmly, highlighted by white tablecloths and sparkling glasses. The door opened directly into the dining area, with the kitchen at the back. The scents of sauce, browning meat, basil, and rosemary filled the air. The staff’s muffled conversations blended with these aromas over the low-tiled wall between the kitchen and the diners. There was a family at one table in the corner, another family at a different one, and two or three couples absorbed in their meals scattered around. And us.

He sat alone at a table against the wall across the room. He wore a three-piece blue suit with narrow stripes, a white shirt, and a blue and white striped tie. The cuffs of his shirt peeked neatly beyond the suit sleeves. Of course, he wore cufflinks. His black shoes shone. His trimmed white hair was combed straight back. The light highlighted his smooth, pink cheeks, making them look cherubic. He had an aquiline nose and a noble chin. His thin lips curled at the corners. Nothing was frayed. I was captivated.

His posture made a statement about his place in life: dignified and elegant. “Capo?” The restaurateurs understood what he wanted, and he nodded when they served his food. A white napkin, tucked into the neck of his shirt, hung loosely around his belt. He started with a red aperitif, Campari, which he slowly brought to his lips. He waited for his meal with his hands folded in his lap, his right hand only moving to grasp the stem of his glass with his thumb and forefinger.

Everything he did at that table, including his smile, was executed with a touch of class. Even a small gesture toward the staff. He nodded and raised his index finger to just above his eye, saluting the cameriere; a subtle movement. Otherwise, his hands were folded in his lap.

He had minestrone, followed by thin pasta with red sauce. He twirled a few strands around his fork, which he balanced against the side of the shallow bowl and, with not a strand dangling, lifted it to his lips. He dabbed his mouth with the end of his napkin. After the pasta, they brought grilled veal drizzled with olive oil and accompanied by a dish of string beans and roasted potatoes.

His waiter poured Brunello. Grasping the stem, now with thumb and two fingers, he raised the glass, swirled the wine, watched the legs flow, and sniffed with his curved nose curled over the rim. “Grazie. Va bene.” I tried to imagine the man’s life while imagining my own.

Part of what I want to tell you is that he reminded me of my father and myself. He summoned the idea of how I would respond to my final days.

Why was he alone? Did he live alone? How did his life go? Was he a bachelor? A widower? If so, did he have children? If married, was his wife lovely, quiet, a partner? Maybe she was away, in Rome, watching grandchildren. How they must love him.

Who makes his coffee, and how does he like it? Does he drink cappuccino? Sugar? Un espresso with a spot, un macchio, of brandy?

Was he retired? What had he done for a living? Maybe he was from nobility and did not need to work.

A professor? How many grateful students must there be?

A physician? How many must he have helped?

A banker? He must have lent to the needy.

A judge? How fair he must have been.

A librarian? He read every book and recommended many.

A jeweler? He must have carried diamonds, rubies, and pearls.

What were his days like? Where did he live? Are there pictures on his walls?

Something makes him smile. Does he laugh?

Does he walk daily? For caffè? Maybe he sported a walking stick, and a cape draped over his shoulders.

Does he read? Does he play an instrument? Or is he the Maestro? Does he go to the opera? I would.

Is he lonely? Would he open the door to an empty house tonight?

This elegant man seemed content, and I should not be sad that he was alone. He was alone, sure, but with thoughts of the past, dreams of the future. His ocean was calm, his tree steady, his life fulfilled. He seemed at peace, strong, and unencumbered. I was a bit envious.

If only I could sit with him for the answers, to see how his existence was meaningful, to understand how mine might be, how confronting shortened time brings us to the present. Had he ever reflected on bitterness, or wanted another chance because of an unwise decision? Had he picked the wrong partner, or been distracted by the thought of money?

Death is a meaningful part of life. Our lives are inimitable and irrevocable. What I saw across the room was distinctive, as the scene gave his life importance. And now he was living in the hour in his favorite restaurant, eating and drinking his favorite things. He was unique. I am unique. I want to drift along as he is, seizing a moment, preserving that moment, dining alone for a reason.

Now I reflect on the places of my childhood. Now, rather than putting them in the past, I am bringing them forward, stretching time as I do so. I want to be the man across the room, spending my limited leisure time on untiring happiness.

Everyone may dine alone at some point. The question is when and where it will be.