I've Been Talking to Strangers (Again)

Also, my argument for not having TikTok.

Some of the names in this essay have been changed to protect the identities of the people involved.

My feelings about travel have long been summed up by French novelist Gustave Flaubert’s words: “Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.” I legitimately think about this quote every time I leave New York. It’s a reminder that although my life here is significant to me, I’m just a drop in the bucket of billions of people in the world. It’s okay if I mess up. It’s okay if I embarrass myself in front of someone I’ll probably never see again (even though I really believe embarrassment is a state of mind, and you can avoid it if you think this way). That’s why I find no shame in talking to strangers. I have nothing to lose.

Last week, I visited Portland, Oregon, for the first time for a work trip. I arrived around noon on Tuesday and had that day to myself before the rest of my colleagues arrived, so I decided to do some exploring on my own. By exploring, I mean that I sought out the best food that Portland had to offer me within an 8-hour span. I went full Bourdain.

I started with lunch at Nong’s Khao Man Gai, a small Thai restaurant that specializes in chicken and rice, and it was delightful. My order—their classic chicken & rice option—included a generous portion of Mary’s Free Range chicken, white rice, Nong’s homemade ginger and garlic sauce, and a nourishing side of hot soup. This all cost a total of $15, and I smiled as I paid. I wasn’t in Manhattan anymore.

For my 3pm snack, I of course stopped for a scoop of ice cream at Salt & Straw, an establishment that I frequented very much for study breaks during my college years in Northern California. Salt & Straw claimed their East Coast-debut NYC locations would open this summer, but I checked on the Upper West Side location over the weekend, and still no dice. (I posted an Instagram story about this and received insider knowledge that it will be opened before October 12. I’ll believe it when I see it.)

Dinner was the main event.

Of all the research I did about the best restaurants in Portland right now, a common denominator among the articles was a French restaurant called Canard in Portland’s Burnside neighborhood. I studied the menu beforehand (obviously) and looked at photos on Yelp and on Instagram (obviously) and wondered if I’m crazy or if I’m just my father’s daughter. We’re food people, I don’t know. (Please never refer to me as a “foodie” — I will scream.)

I had made a reservation for myself at Canard for 7:30 PM, and I was pleased to learn during my research that it’s great for solo dining. I was excited by the possibility that there might be some other solo diners for me to talk to, since as we all know, I love talking to strangers. I was seated next to a woman who was also dining alone, and we both had books with us. I glanced at the title of hers and noticed she was reading a book called Eating Animals and then wondered if she was going to be mad when I ordered a duck dish, since I already knew what I was ordering after looking at the menu several times throughout the day. She didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t seem to notice my presence, actually.

Sad. Good for her, I guess.

My server, Dillon, took my order and asked if I’d been there before and when I answered “no,” he asked what’s taken me so long.

“Because I don’t live here,” I answered, sheepishly. “Fair enough,” he said with a smile. “Well, welcome.”

I cracked open my book Braiding Sweetgrass, but I couldn’t help but glance up at what was happening in front of me. I was seated at the chef’s counter, so it was hard not to watch them creating the exquisite food in front of me. A young cook, who seemed about my age and looked a lot like Dominic Fike, noticed my curiosity and asked me, as he effortlessly arranged a plate of scallop crudo, “So if you don’t live here, where are you visiting from?”

“New York,” I answered. “Oh, shit,” he replied.

It’s funny—every time you tell someone you’re from New York, they stand up a little straighter. Really not necessary. Everyone’s a mess here.

My pluot & cucumber salad arrived in all its glory with an umeboshi buttermilk dressing and sesame croutons. It was delightful, and I ate the whole thing, aside from a few of the croutons. A middle-aged man was now seated next to me, and I heard him ask Dillon, “What did she order that she very clearly hated?” This was so middle-aged-man of him. I had to smile.

I continued half-reading my book, half-chatting with Dominic Fike Lookalike, and eventually Dillon came over to apologize that he had forgotten to put the order in for my entrée, but it would be ready shortly. “No worries,” I said, “I like taking my time.”

When my entrée did arrive, it was astounding (complimentary). I had ordered the “duck stack,” which consisted of two pancakes, duck gravy, tabasco onion, and a duck egg on top. When in Portland! Middle-Aged Man next to me had ordered the same thing, but he had the foie gras add-on. We enjoyed our parallel delicacies in silence.

I felt so content here. The feeling that nobody knew me there was almost refreshing. Not that I’m some well-known person in New York, but to be in a city where you literally don’t know one person feels like cleansing yourself. I could’ve been anyone I wanted to be. I could’ve given them all a different name. I could’ve said I do something totally different for work or that I live in a totally different city than I do. But I’ll always choose to be myself.

I ended my meal with a decaf coffee, as I often do, and digested with my book for a while. I chatted with Dominic Fike Lookalike for a bit and took in the surroundings of a buzzy Portland restaurant on a Tuesday.

After I had paid for my meal—which was under $50 but would cost double in New York—Dillon asked me where else I planned to eat during my trip. Eventually Middle-Aged Man got involved as well, and the three of us were bonding over food and restaurants and travel and the next thing I knew, the man introduced himself as Allen and said to me, “I wanted to get a dessert but… would you be interested in sharing it with me?”

Of course I would.

We decided to order the Peaches and Cream Paris-Brest, a special menu item celebrating stone fruit season, a superior fruit season if you ask me. Allen told me that the best peaches are not in Georgia but are actually in Colorado. “Do you like bourbon?” he asked me. “Actually, I do. I love bourbon,” I said. He told me that I absolutely must try putting an overripe peach in the freezer sometime and then shaving the frozen peach with a Microplane into a glass of bourbon. I texted Anne this immediately. (We tried it this past weekend, and it was delicious.)

Allen and I enjoyed our dessert together and continued to talk about peaches and restaurants and New York and Portland and his daughter and my job and how much we love Jackson, Wyoming. I continued to enjoy my decaf coffee, and he ordered one too. We have something in common with every person we meet. I’ve been saying this.

I eventually started feeling the effects of East Coast time wearing down on me, so I told Allen (who paid for our lovely dessert) and Dillon The Server and Dominic Fike Lookalike that it was time for me to retire to my hotel. I looked around the restaurant and noticed that there were only a few people still there. How does it always happen that I close down the place? I couldn’t believe I just shared a dessert with a stranger. (Yes I could.)

Little did I know, sharing a dessert with a stranger would be nothing compared to my meal in New York 3 days later.

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Last Friday was spent unpacking from Portland, getting my apartment in order, and planning my day around one of the last remaining items on my summer bucket list:

Solo dining at the bar at Torrisi.

I had saved this for the very end of summer because (A) I wanted it to feel like a special treat and (B) I knew it would be expensive, so it only felt right to do this during Labor Day Weekend, which is what most Americans consider the end of summer. While all my friends were spending their money on Italian food in Europe, I would spend my money on Italian food in downtown Manhattan.

For those of you who may not be familiar, Torrisi was opened in late 2022 by the same restaurant group behind Carbone, so it’s one of those places that instantly went viral on that app you guys all use, and it’s Literally Impossible to get a reservation. Unless you want to eat at 11 PM. Which some people do.

Otherwise, you can try your luck at getting a spot at the bar, which is first-come, first-served.

I had been on the phone with Anne earlier that day, and when she asked what time I planned to head to the restaurant, I told her around 4:30. “Early bird special, huh!” she taunted. I explained that I didn’t think I’d end up getting a spot until 7:00 at the earliest, and I was right.

For the occasion, I wore a vintage black Saint Laurent blouse with a white skirt from Zara because life is all about balance. To put it in Gwyneth Paltrow’s words, “It’s what makes life interesting, finding the balance between cigarettes and tofu.”

I indeed headed to the restaurant for 4:30 and indeed waited 30 minutes and was indeed told to come back for 7:00. This was perfect because no one wearing a black Saint Laurent blouse wants to eat 5 PM dinner. How unchic.

In the interim, I wanted to stay close by, so after walking around for a bit, I played it safe by sitting at the bar at La Pecora Bianca for a glass of wine. I jotted a few things in my pocket notebook, a present from Kelly, because I thought it might make this easier to write. Looking at it now, it’s mostly gibberish.

I’m trying to read my book, but the man next to me wants to chat. My sauvignon blanc tastes Too Sweet tonight, but it’s fine. Maybe that’s all in my head, or maybe it’s because I drank too much last night at dinner with Kelly that my mouth’s become numb to the actual taste of a glass of wine. Either way, I’m excited for my dinner.

20 minutes later

I truthfully haven’t eaten much today in anticipation of my dinner, so by now, my Too Sweet Glass of Sauvignon Blanc is really hitting even though I’ve only consumed half. I’m so hungry.

30 minutes later, now almost 7 pm

After putting my name on the waitlist at 5 PM, I trudged around the area within a 3-block radius of the restaurant, hoping to run into someone I know, but instead just landed on a Too Sweet Glass of Sauvignon Blanc at LPB, and now I’m standing in what I’m pretty sure is the alley where Carrie [Bradshaw] got mugged, writing in this notebook against a brick wall.

Useless.

At 6:59 PM, I got the text. My seat was ready.

I was ushered by one of the hostesses to a waiting area with other lucky soon-to-be-diners. The woman across from me was talking to her friend about her plans to divorce her future husband even though he hasn’t even proposed yet. Pour one out for Peter.

After ordering a dry martini, which I sipped very slowly, I was taken to my spot at the expansive bar—the seat right in the middle—which could not have been more perfect. I was in the center of the action.

As I was being ushered to my seat, a young man—who somewhat looked like Charles Melton—was being ushered to the seat next to me.

“Hi! Welcome! Are you two… you’re not together. Are you together?” asked the cheery server with French-braided pigtails behind the bar. Her name was Olivia.

“Oh, no,” we both stammered, chuckling subtly.

Olivia smiled, and as water was being poured in my glass by another server, Olivia proceeded to tell the man next to me about the specials.

Once she finished, the man said, “So are you going to explain all of that again to her?” referring to me. “I got all of that,” I said. “Scallop crudo, oysters…” I proceeded to repeat everything she had just shared with him. I have an excellent memory.

Olivia left us to it, and the man turned to me and said, “I have to thank you. If it weren’t for you needing a seat for just one, I wouldn’t have been able to dine here tonight.” He proceeded to tell me that this was a last-minute thing for him, which I thought was funny, because I’d essentially had this planned for months. I realized he might be a little older than I originally thought he was.

We sat there in silence for a moment, both looking down at our menus, until I bravely asked the million-dollar question: “So what are you ordering?” With my recent experience in Portland, I somehow already knew what was coming next.

“I was just about to ask you the same.” He turned to me, “I’d honestly be down to share everything, if you want.”

Of course I would.

Olivia and I made eye contact and smiled at each other. That gesture officially made her My Girl.

My fellow diner and I decided on the following:

• Cucumbers New Yorkese

• Octopus Nha Trang

• Tortellini Pomodoro

• Raviolini with Prawns and Saffron

• Cavatelli with Jamaican Beef Ragu

As we waited for the first dish, he introduced himself as Thomas and explained that he knows the sommelier of the restaurant from his wine class. “Do you like wine?” he asked, “I’m going to order us a bottle if that’s okay.” By all means.

He ordered us a bottle—a $278 bottle, mind you—and we got to talking about restaurants. He told me he went to Roscioli for lunch earlier that day. It seems like everybody is eating at Roscioli except for me. He told me he works in education technology, and I told him that I’m going to be an English teacher one day. I told him I love New York, and he told me he’s lived here for 14 years. He told me that the Chinese restaurants here made him realize that his mother wasn’t the best cook. I laughed and thought of my mother, who’s a great cook.

We continued talking and not talking, enjoying our meal together but separately. I didn’t think we had a romantic connection, but I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about all of this. We both commented on how it was nice to share the meal since we were able to try more things, and I told him about my Portland experience with Allen earlier that week. I said I thought it was funny how I somehow end up in situations like this quite often. “I mean who wouldn’t want to talk to you? You’re an attractive young woman,” he said, looking at me.

I don’t know why this made me uncomfortable, but it did. Please, Thomas. Not in front of Olivia.

The pastas arrived altogether and were utterly delightful. The “viral” Tortellini Pomodoro was probably my least favorite out of the three. Social media makes things so weird. The Cavatelli with Jamaican Beef Ragu was the real winner.

Thomas and I both agreed that ordering viral pasta is Out. I told him about how I don’t have TikTok, so sometimes I feel out of it when it comes to knowing what’s viral, but I think that makes me more authentic, and I love this about myself. I love when my friends explain things to me without my asking because they know I have no idea what’s trending or what’s already been deemed “viral on TikTok.” I love being able to listen to a song and not associate it with someone’s fit check. I love seeing a line for something in downtown Manhattan and asking someone, “What’s this line for?” instead of just knowing what it’s for because I saw something on my screen earlier. All of this allows me, for the most part, to form my own opinions on things. To have my own personal style. To not be jaded by what others think is cool or uncool. Sometimes it’s nice to not know things. There’s power in the unknown.

After our plates had been cleared, I ordered us the Sicilian Date Cake, despite Thomas saying he didn’t want dessert. If there is ever a date cake or a sticky toffee pudding on a menu, I will be ordering it and that’s a non-negotiable.

Over dessert and decaf coffee, I asked Thomas, “So if you’ve been here for 14 years you must like it. Do you plan to stay?”

He grinned, his face turning a bit red. “I’m actually moving to LA in October.”

“Oh,” I said unwavering, “What’s in LA?”

“Wife’s job,” he said, almost embarrassed. “She works for TikTok.”

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After Thomas and I had split the bill (he paid for our $278 bottle of wine, of course), I said goodbye and thanked him for dining with me and ran to Bar Valentina to tell my friends about my night—about how I had just spent 2 hours having dinner with someone who waited until the very end to tell me he was married. Anne was shocked; the boys didn’t think it was that crazy. Figures.

Even though Torrisi is in my city—just a 12-minute walk from my apartment—I left feeling like I had just gone on another trip to another city. It all felt so unfamiliar, leaving that space, having shared an entire meal with someone I had just met and will probably never see again. It was a weird feeling, but meeting my friends at a bar that I go to nearly every week made me feel like I was home again. I thought about Thomas and thought about his Wife Who Works for TikTok and thought about this idea that maybe there are people out there who choose to do things alone because they just want to be someone else for a moment or not feel like they’re tethered to their partner, and I think that’s totally normal and okay. If I were his Wife Who Works for TikTok, though, I would’ve hoped to be mentioned sooner. Regardless of any of this, I realized how happy I was to be so secure. To always be myself in these situations. To never break character. To be someone that people want to talk to. To be me.

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Later that evening, glued to the corner booth of Bar Valentina as Naja (our favorite server there) poured us complimentary Jameson shots (she needs to stop doing this), one of my best guy friends and I talked about what’s important to us in terms of our careers and how we see ourselves in the future. I had been thinking out loud, saying that I love my job, but I also really love writing. Sitting in that booth, I just kept thinking about how I wanted to write about my experience that night and I couldn’t wait to go home and start it.

“What’s the most important thing to you? First thing that comes to mind,” my friend asked.

I laughed and said, without hesitation, “Food! It always comes back to food!”

“That was going to be my answer, too.”

Food is at the center of it all. It’s a big part of my upbringing and my family’s culture, it’s a big part of my life now, and it’s a big part of almost any community. It’s what brings people together. I’m glad it led me to Allen. I’m even glad it led me to Thomas. I can’t wait to see where it leads me in the future.

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Thank you for READING! What do you think about Thomas? Should he have mentioned his wife sooner? I want to add that I am not one of those people who thinks that every time someone is talking to me they’re flirting, but I gave you the full picture—it was a long meal and we had many conversations. I’m curious about people’s thoughts on this.

Happy September & Happy NYFW !!!!!

LoF Radio is a bit dancey this week. I hope you don’t mind. xoxo