Edited by Camilla Mignone
Some are ashamed to do it. Those who do it with pride. And those who have never even thought about it. But really, in 2025, is sitting at the table alone still something to be justified?
Eating alone is one of those acts that seem trivial until you actually do it. A sandwich in the office? Normal. A slice of pizza on the fly? Usual practice. But a full lunch in a restaurant, alone and in no hurry? There, everything changes.
Do you sit or run? Does one order calmly or ask for the bill as soon as the dish arrives? Do you pretend to shake the phone to look busy? The truth is that being alone at the table is still mostly perceived as a sign of loneliness, almost a social defeat. But what if we turn the point of view upside down? What if it were, instead, a form of caring, of listening, of freedom?
The prejudice: if you eat alone, something is wrong. In Mediterranean culture, the meal has always been a shared ritual: the table as a place of belonging, company as a necessary condition. Our collective imagination is full of tables, toasts, dishes passed from one hand to another. In the midst of all this, the individual diner is often a suspicious figure.
Why are you alone? No one could come? Are you OK? Are you waiting for someone? Eating alone, especially outside the home, is still a gesture that needs to be explained. Justified. But what does this discomfort really stem from?
The silent pleasure of chosen solitude: there are those who eat alone because they must, of course. But there are also those who do it by choice, and defend it as a sacred space. A moment in which time contracts, sounds are muffled, and food once again becomes a sensory experience. Not a social performance.
Those who have tried slow dining alone - no hurry, no earphones, no distractions - often say the same thing: one feels present. More attentive to details. More connected to oneself.
And so the question changes: is it more lonely who eats alone, or who eats in company without listening to anything that is going on? The signs of change are there, starting with restaurants and formats
designed for one. In recent years, something is moving. In cities, more and more restaurants are starting to provide solutions for single customers: corner tables, counter seats, quick but carefully prepared menus. In Japan it has long been normal: eating alone is not an exception, but one of the many forms of everyday life. Some establishments even have individual booths, to enjoy each course in
perfect silence.
In Europe the trend is slower, but it is there. And it is not only affecting singles: eating alone has become an act of self-education to slowness, centredness, pleasure. But is it really for everyone? And where does the myth stop? Beware, however, of idealising. Eating alone can also be scary. At certain stages of life, in certain contexts (think small towns, or very crowded places), sitting alone can make one feel vulnerable. Exposed. And no, you don't always feel like facing that extra glance, that sentence from the waiter, that moment when the phone is finished and the voice inside your head starts screaming.
Is eating alone an act of freedom? Yes, but also a challenge. A small conquest that not everyone is ready to make, or to repeat every day. And that's OK. Perhaps it is not loneliness, but presence,
awareness, of one's own space and time, of one's own identity, which does not suffer alone. At a time when we talk everywhere about self-care, should we not also include the
the way we sit at the table? Not just what we eat, but with whom. And above all: how do we sit, alone, while we do it?
Eating alone is neither a duty nor an undertaking. It is just a possibility. A light but powerful trajectory to return to oneself, fork after fork. And perhaps discover that there is nothing sad about that table for one. Sometimes it is, quite simply, all that is needed.
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