I love dining out alone. I also love eating with friends—some of my fondest memories involve my favourite people, snorting with laughter, sharing stories and occasionally tears somewhere between the starters and the pudding. But solo dining is its own pleasure: an empowered choice that is as complete as dining with company, and a glorious opportunity to embrace absolute selfishness, entirely guilt-free.
Last June, to celebrate my birthday, I made a lunch reservation at Hyde Park Garden, the exquisitely pretty al fresco restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental. I sat in the sun and ate slowly, without interruption or agenda, to a soundtrack of birdsong and the soft rustle of early summer growth from the Park’s ancient chestnut trees. It was relaxed. It was unhurried. It was bliss. And it was made all the more blissful because I was alone. On purpose.
To some, this still feels faintly transgressive. Perhaps even faintly tragic. A scenario that makes certain people deeply uncomfortable. A birthday lunch without a guest list. No apologetic explanations offered to the host. No waiting for diaries to align. Just me, a table, a two-Michelin-star menu, and the pleasure of not having to negotiate a thing.
I’m possibly—if slightly unwittingly—an early adopter of what is now emerging as a genuine dining shift: the rise of the solo dinner. Social media, predictably, has clocked it. TikTok is awash with women filming themselves ordering oysters, pasta, martinis. Table for one. Notebook open. Unbothered. The tone is neither lonely nor defiant, but quietly assured. Eating alone not as a fallback, but as a preference.
This instinct, it turns out, is not as solitary as it once seemed. According to recent OpenTable research, solo dining is one of the fastest-growing dining behaviours globally, with reservations for one rising sharply—particularly among Millennials and Gen Z. Nearly half of diners now report eating alone at least occasionally, not out of necessity but preference. Dining alone, it seems, is no longer shorthand for loneliness, but for autonomy: a shift from “table for one, please” as apology, to statement.
This is one way I practise self-care. By paying attention to what I want, and then following through. If we write the rule book for how the world treats us, I’d like to set a good example. Pleasure, to me, is becoming increasingly sacred. As Regena Thomashauer puts it: “Pleasure is a form of power when you stop asking permission for it.”
There is a particular satisfaction in choosing a restaurant you’ve long wanted to try and simply going. No special occasion required. No justification necessary. The idea that dinner must be tethered to romance—or at the very least, companionship—feels increasingly outdated. Why wait?
Solo dining, at its best, is not about proving independence. It is about agency. About appetite. About trusting that pleasure does not need an audience to be valid. It is choosing to date yourself, without irony or apology.
My love of dining alone wasn’t a sudden infatuation, mind. I remember feeling distinctly awkward the first time I intentionally dined alone—made a reservation for one, arrived, ate and departed solo. I was in Rome and very much wanted to eat dinner at the impossibly elegant Le Jardin at the Hotel de Russie. It was a very different emotional experience from my Roman solo lunches, which had felt low-stakes, even commonplace. I felt like an extra in a film trying to sneak into a scene reserved for the main characters. In short: like an impostor.
I worried about what the other diners were thinking; my imagination, as ever, was unkind. Eventually, the self-consciousness faded. I noticed the gardens, the architecture, the atmosphere. I exhaled. That moment changed everything. Being fully present for such an exquisite experience—one I was privileged to inhabit—mattered more than whatever anyone else might have thought.
After the first few solo dinners—and the occasional flicker of unwelcome attention—I realised something had shifted. This was not sad. It was not brave. It was, in fact, rather glamorous.
Now, I enjoy making reservations just for me. I relish reading menus, considering what I might order without compromise. There is something elegantly practical about dining alone. You order exactly what you want. You drink what you fancy. You leave when you’re ready. You notice more: the room, the service, the way the light falls across the table. Conversation is replaced by attention.
And Sloane Street has plenty of restaurants as which it is a joy to dine alone. At Cantinetta Antinori, I booked myself a table and ordered vitello tonnato, followed by a deeply luxurious bowl of pasta and tiramisu. I ate all of it. I lingered. I didn’t rush dessert because someone else was watching the clock. It felt spoiling in the best possible way.
At Azzurra, I ate a plate of oysters and gleefully ate every last mouthful of an unforgettable tiramisu. And I will regularly get—and act upon—cravings for The LaLee’s steak tartare.
We have been trained to see eating alone as a failure of planning or popularity. In reality, it is often a quiet signal of confidence. I no longer feel the need to wait. For a partner. For a friend. For a reason. The menu is waiting. The table is there. And increasingly, so am I—contentedly, deliberately, alone.
A Few Civilised Rules for Dining Alone
Eat at the Bar
This is the entry-level solo dining option. It often feels less exposing than taking a table for one, and has the added advantage of being quietly sociable—conversation if you want it, solitude if you don’t.
Make a Reservation
Truly. Waiting in line alone can unnerve even the most seasoned solo diner. If reservations aren’t an option, go for lunch instead, when the energy is gentler and nobody is clock-watching.
Take a Book
Or a journal. A good book offers a perfectly respectable form of company, while journaling can be a quietly powerful way to reconnect with yourself between courses.
Order What You Actually Want
This is the point. Not what seems sensible, shareable or impressive. Solo dining is not a performance; it’s an opportunity to indulge appetite without negotiation.
Leave When You’re Ready
You are under no obligation to linger or to rush. Finish your wine. Order another, if you fancy. Have the dessert. The luxury is choice.
