I love to travel. While most people are spending their free time catching up on the latest TV shows, I’m researching my next destination. I’ve never struggled to find people to holiday with, but as my friends settle into full-time work and family life, this could easily change. I’ve never solo travelled before, and although the thought terrifies me, I might have to one day if I want to tick off my bucket list.

Trying new food is my favourite aspect of going overseas – I’m a massive foodie. There’s nothing better than sitting in a nice restaurant and eating things I can’t even pronounce. Dining by myself feels strange though, and I would hate to miss out on amazing dinners during future solo trips just because I feel uncomfortable.

I generally don’t have a problem doing things alone. Watching movies by myself – another social taboo – is something I really enjoy, sometimes even more so than going with others.

Dining feels different though, particularly at a proper sit-down restaurant. What I enjoy most about it isn’t just eating the food, it’s sharing that food with others. The excited eye contact you make when your dishes are first brought out. The chorus of mmms sent around the table as people take their first bite. The wide-eyed-upwards-head-jolt reaction when somebody tries something utterly fascinating and urges everyone else to taste that part of the dish. These are the moments I live for; I worry that I’d feel empty without anyone to share them with.

Having said that, I’m happy to be wrong. Perhaps it’ll be something I really enjoy. I’ll never know unless I try it.

That’s why this week I: Dined solo at a fancy restaurant.

I love a good set menu, and that’s exactly what I wanted here. Problem is, they’re generally designed for two or more people. I thought I’d found a place where this wouldn’t be an issue, but when I called them up to make a booking, I was informed that their ‘Feed Me’ menu could not cater to single diners (despite it saying nothing of the sort on their website). Back to the drawing board.

Eventually, I found another place – Moonhouse in Balaclava – and gave them a call. I was greeted over the phone by the friendly voice of Drea. I let her know I’d be dining solo and was wondering if I could still get one of the set menus (they have three). She hesitated for a moment, and I readied myself for another rejection, but then she spoke. “Usually, we don’t offer our set menus to individuals, but I’ll be working on Thursday, and I reckon we can make this happen”. I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice as I literally fist-pumped the air like a character from an 80s Hollywood blockbuster. I gave my surname for the booking in the way I usually do when trying to eliminate any confusion over the phone: It’s ‘Smart’, like intelligent’. She cracked up. It made me feel like I was talking to a real person, and I liked that.

The night came. I was a bit nervous, but I walked in with as much confidence as I could muster. Hi, I have a reservation for one at 7:30. “Ahh, you must be Mitchell.” It was my Drea. As she grabbed me some menus, she repeated our inside joke: “Smart, like intelligent”. We both laughed. Suddenly the tension was gone.

I was taken to a seat at the bar and shown the set menu options. I chose the $88 premium degustation and a kiwi & pear cocktail (it was three days before my Japan trip, and I was already in holiday spending mode).

With my ordering out of the way, I wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. This is the part where I’d usually start yapping at the speed of sound with whoever I’m with. Instead, I just looked around. The bar was located at the front of the dining room and faced away from the tables, so I mostly watched the bartender work. She was shaking up what appeared to be an espresso martini, so I was surprised to see her pull out six shot glasses from a cupboard underneath the bar. I was curious, so I asked. Heidi – her name, as I found out – explained that a group wanted to try this cocktail but didn’t need a whole drink each. I told her I thought that was pretty clever, and she agreed. That question opened up a running dialogue that continued throughout the night, and I’m glad it did.

It wasn’t long before my entrees started arriving. Chicken and prawn wontons, kingfish crudo, macadamia & black garlic dip served with Chinese donuts. There was hardly enough room for it all at my tiny bar table. As I watched the food pile up, a massive grin spread out across my face. I zigzagged eagerly from dish to dish, chopsticks ricocheting around the table like a giraffe taking its first steps. I was in heaven.

I had a sneaking suspicion that I was being served more than I should have been, and when the mains arrived, I was proven right. The fried rice would have been too much for me if it was the only thing I ordered! This rice is a bit ambitious, I said to Heidi. She looked at it and we both cracked up. We guessed that the chefs hadn’t noticed that my set menu was for one person rather than the usual two. I thought about all the stupid mistakes I’ve made in the kitchen at work; this was a much fancier restaurant, but I suppose we’re all human.

I had irresponsibly ordered a second cocktail, so I asked for a break before dessert (to sober up for the drive home). I sat and reflected. It had been wonderful so far – amazing food, lovely staff – but it all came with a certain emptiness. A part of me wasn’t fully settled, and I felt like I was going through the motions rather than truly diving into the experience. I wasn’t sure if this was a feeling I’d overcome with time or a reality of the situation.

Throughout the night I had been taking notes to refer back to (for writing up this blog), and something funny happened as I waited for my dessert. These two British girls were leaving, and while one was paying, the other hesitantly approached me. “Can I be really nosy?”, she said in a thick Cockney accent. Sure, I replied. She asked me what I was writing, and we chatted briefly about stepping out of comfort zones. It was only a short conversation, but it was memorable (not least because of her jumpscare of an accent).

Finally, my dessert came (deep-fried milk tea ice cream, chef’s kiss). I talked a bit more with Heidi as she closed up. She told me that she loves solo dining, but when I mentioned my fondness for seeing movies by myself, she recoiled at the thought. It was funny and reminded me that everyone’s comfort zones look different. When I’d finished eating, I figured there was little point hanging around, and paid the bill (adding a tip for the great service and to make up for some of the free food I’d received).

As I drove home, I felt mixed emotions. There were benefits of dining solo, definitely, like paying more attention to the food and eating at my own pace. Enjoying such a fabulous meal with nobody to share those memories with, however, seemed a little pointless. That empty feeling lingered. Desperate to find another angle (as I always do when trying to deal with adverse emotions), I recalled a conversation I once had with my mate Pierre. An avid solo traveller, I’d asked him if he ever gets lonely. “Oh yeah,” he said, “you definitely have some lonely nights, but that’s all part of it. You’ve gotta appreciate the people you meet along the way, those little interactions you have.” It shifted everything into a new perspective. Instead of thinking about what I’d missed out on, I realised how fortunate I was to have had so many positive social encounters rather than sitting alone all night, and that made me feel a little less empty.

For me, dining solo was never going to reach the heights of dining with others, but that’s okay. For what it was, I had a great evening. Even better, I jumped over the hurdle of doing this for the first time, and I won’t be afraid to do it again.

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