In Korean there is an abbreviated term called "혼밥" (pronounced Hon-bab; literal translation 혼: alone 밥: rice/meal), that I've heard people refer to as if it's something pitiful yet unfortunately inevitable.
I remember watching part of a documentary that takes place in Japan. The camera leads you into a restaurant, where it captures a long table with cubicle-like divisions with dimensions just big enough to fit a sitting average-adult male. The heighty sides of each cubicle are meant to give the person occupying the space privacy and a fort from prying eyes. A man huddled into a bowl of steamy soup is approached by the camera-man and asked how he feels about eating alone- he shrugs and says that with his tight work schedule he has no other option than to eat a fast lonely meal.
The camera distances itself away from this man, as a female voice narrates on how nowadays more and more people have alone-meals and that restaurants adapt their infrastructure so as to accomodate these "single" customers. The documentary seems to allude that eating alone, or alone-time in general, is an unwanted condition.
Personally?
I disagree with the universalized approach to drape a negative veil upon "Alone Time", particularly and especially on eating alone.
I bumped into a coworker the other day, who asked me where I was off to. I told her I was heading out to lunch. Her immediate question was, with who. I unhesitantly answered, "by myself"-- answer she echoed back with a deep emphasis: "By YOURSELF, Yourself, yourself, yourse-" I said no more and as I stepped out of the elevator, she twitched her mouth a bit before suggesting, "You can always have lunch with us on the 20th floor!". The door closed behind me before I could answer.
The truth is, I don't mind eating alone.
In a way I look forward to it.
-Not that I don't enjoy gathering around the table with friends and family-
But a solo-meal
has it's own little appeal.
I mean,
Who hasn't crawled out of bed during witching hour,
tiptoed to the fridge and
juggled jars of jams and olives and jalapeños and packs of butter and spreadable cheese and bottles of yellow and brown mustard and used that
spark of creativity that only lits up nocturnally to
whip up a never-thought-of-before sweet and spicy and creamy cold sandwich accompanied
by some midnight booze (served in a mug, of course).
Or
Who hasn't started the day with a stubborn tummy
craving for shrimpincoconutsauceandvanillaicecreamwithfrench-fries
And
only shrimpincoconutsauceandvanillaicecreamwithfrench-fries?
If not done alone- very few people will accompany you to a fast-paced journey
five blocks East to gobble down a stew of coconutty shrimp to then
stroll alongside the river under the hot sun to reach a Mcdonalds, grab fries and icecream to go
And sit by your side
on some random stair
under some ceasing shade
alongside some beggar bird
with some colourless wind blowing in your hair,
and still have a quarter of an hour to spare to read a a poem of this sort:
How to Eat AloneI remember watching part of a documentary that takes place in Japan. The camera leads you into a restaurant, where it captures a long table with cubicle-like divisions with dimensions just big enough to fit a sitting average-adult male. The heighty sides of each cubicle are meant to give the person occupying the space privacy and a fort from prying eyes. A man huddled into a bowl of steamy soup is approached by the camera-man and asked how he feels about eating alone- he shrugs and says that with his tight work schedule he has no other option than to eat a fast lonely meal.
The camera distances itself away from this man, as a female voice narrates on how nowadays more and more people have alone-meals and that restaurants adapt their infrastructure so as to accomodate these "single" customers. The documentary seems to allude that eating alone, or alone-time in general, is an unwanted condition.
Personally?
I disagree with the universalized approach to drape a negative veil upon "Alone Time", particularly and especially on eating alone.
I bumped into a coworker the other day, who asked me where I was off to. I told her I was heading out to lunch. Her immediate question was, with who. I unhesitantly answered, "by myself"-- answer she echoed back with a deep emphasis: "By YOURSELF, Yourself, yourself, yourse-" I said no more and as I stepped out of the elevator, she twitched her mouth a bit before suggesting, "You can always have lunch with us on the 20th floor!". The door closed behind me before I could answer.
The truth is, I don't mind eating alone.
In a way I look forward to it.
-Not that I don't enjoy gathering around the table with friends and family-
But a solo-meal
has it's own little appeal.
I mean,
Who hasn't crawled out of bed during witching hour,
tiptoed to the fridge and
juggled jars of jams and olives and jalapeños and packs of butter and spreadable cheese and bottles of yellow and brown mustard and used that
spark of creativity that only lits up nocturnally to
whip up a never-thought-of-before sweet and spicy and creamy cold sandwich accompanied
by some midnight booze (served in a mug, of course).
Or
Who hasn't started the day with a stubborn tummy
craving for shrimpincoconutsauceandvanillaicecreamwithfrench-fries
And
only shrimpincoconutsauceandvanillaicecreamwithfrench-fries?
If not done alone- very few people will accompany you to a fast-paced journey
five blocks East to gobble down a stew of coconutty shrimp to then
stroll alongside the river under the hot sun to reach a Mcdonalds, grab fries and icecream to go
And sit by your side
on some random stair
under some ceasing shade
alongside some beggar bird
with some colourless wind blowing in your hair,
and still have a quarter of an hour to spare to read a a poem of this sort:
by Daniel Hapern
While it's still light out
set the table for one:
a red linen tablecloth,
one white plate, a bowl
for the salad
and the proper silverware.
Take out a three-pound leg of lamb,
rub it with salt, pepper and cumin,
then push in two cloves
of garlic splinters.
Place it in a 325-degree oven
and set the timer for an hour.
Put freshly cut vegetables
into a pot with some herbs
and the crudest olive oil
you can find.
Heat on a low flame.
Clean the salad.
Be sure the dressing is made
with fresh dill, mustard
and the juice of hard lemons.
Open a bottle of good late harvest zinfandel
and let it breathe on the table.
Pour yourself a glass
of cold California chardonnay
and go to your study and read.
As the story unfolds
you will smell the lamb
and the vegetables.
*Poem from the collection of poems found inside the book "Eat This Poem" by Nicole Gulotta