How It Began

There’s a quiet kind of magic in eating solo that has always been a self-love ceremony for me, imbued with presence and gratitude. The hum of dozens of conversations becomes the soundtrack, watching the slow curl of steam from a morning latte becomes peaceful, regulating entertainment. For years, I chose that magic freely—slipping into a corner booth with a book, watching the rain streak against the windows, letting the world blur in the soft hum of a dining room. Sometimes a chef would occasionally come out and sit with me, asking for my thoughts on the meal.

Alain Passard, renowned French chef and owner of the three-Michelin-starred restaurant L'Arpège in Paris. Known for his innovative and artistic approach to vegetable-focused cuisine, he removed all meat dishes from his menu in 2001, making him a pioneer in vegetarian haute cuisine. He came to sit with me, talk about my meal, and even excitedly suggested we take (an embarrassing number of) selfies.

Then, life shifted. As it does.

While I was happily divorced and child-free, traveling the world and building my businesses, my friends became spouses, parents and/or entirely too busy to gather and commune for hours, as we did in the days of our oh-so-free 20’s. The tables got smaller, the meals became a rushed game of catch-up, and the invitations for conversation and enough time to chew were fewer. And with more frequent solo dining came something I hadn’t expected—the occasional sting of being treated as an afterthought, a table to turn quickly and with a kind of irritated haste that left me feeling heavy and burdensome.

Assumptions were made. Sometimes reservation platforms wouldn’t allow me to book a table for “just one”. My requests for a table were met with a not-so-subtle shoo to the bar — another social cue that I as a solo woman was undeserving of her own space — which, ironically, was typically followed by unwanted and even predatory attention from men.

In December 2024, one of my favorite solo activities went from self-love ceremony to shame ritual during a particularly rough experience at a restaurant in my neighborhood. After I requested a table in the sparsely-filled front of the space (I quickly learned that I must ask for the table I want, or I will be seated by the bathroom), I was told the tables were reservation-only and sent to the “communal table” in the back. It was a long bar table attached to the wall. Diners seated here have no choice but to face the wall as they dine. While the bar was located there as well, I was completely alone.

Moments later, as I sipped my Old Fashioned — already feeling the emotional terrorist voice of my loser complex — I watched as a couple entered and approached the host stand:

“No, we don’t have reservations. Is the window seat available?”

“That’s quite alright, right this way.”

The holiday season is particularly tender for me after losing my father in 2020 — a champion diner with whom I would eat, drink and converse for four hours at a time. So, on this particular evening, that small exchange landed heavily. I had never felt like my solo activities were an emotional liability until then.

So, I went home and decided to leverage my combination of sadness, loneliness and righteous anger. I mapped out the concept in my mind, and purchased www.diningsolodc.com.

While I felt sense of purpose in helping other solo diners feel more comfortable, confident and aware of the restaurants who would celebrate them instead of sideline them, it was more than 6 months before I chose to dine solo again.

#DiningSoloDC is my answer to the brief loss of my culinary self-care ritual, and my love letter to anyone who takes themselves out without apprehension or apology. It’s for those who still believe a table for one can be an act of devotion. For the newly single, the long-time independent, the self-rekindlers, and the simply hungry.

Welcome, and Bon Appetit.