The frying pan sits on my desk, some roasted bits of the Italian sausage I ate clinging to the bottom in some show of defiance. I will use the oil to fry some eggs, and the fond to make a sauce to blanket them.
I never quite eat alone, even when I’m on my own. All the restaurants will have at least two chairs at their table-for-one, and when I cook at home the sounds of the bats, birds, and those damned mating cats keep me company. Whether or not you are alone is a matter of boundary, of perspective. Alone, not really; lonely, sometimes.
I sit at the bar of a restaurant which is uncharacteristically sleepy, since everyone has decided to celebrate the Mexican no-one-knows-what-the-hell-they’re-celebrating event called Cinco de Mayo and have gone to the local margarita bar. I order 6 oysters, listen, and watch. There is a group of Asian frat guys at the end of the bar, winding down the night and trying to avoid the sweaty crowd. There is a group of three older than me, one man and a couple, with the single man lamenting his recent breakup. Perhaps lamenting isn’t the right word, as he doesn’t seem particularly sad about it. She has taken his dog. We are all so different, and yet here we are under the same roof, drinking from the same bottle of whiskey.
I rarely wish to talk to people when I eat; I suppose this is bad news for anyone I am interested in dating. But at the same time, I do not enjoy eating alone. Even if no words are exchanged, no bullshit small talk that both of us somehow hate yet feel obligated to partake in, there is something to be said for enjoying a meal in the company of another.
I only offer to share my food with people I actually give a damn about. Some view this as common courtesy. I do not. That being said, sharing a meal is a different matter.
To share is to give up some amount of your own, and allowing someone else to take part. Sharing implies loss. Sharing a meal, however, is not compromise, it is complement.
