‘Just you?’ She’s learning the art of eating at her favorite restaurants — solo.

“Just you?”

Two words asked harmlessly and yet tinged with scrutiny. A simple question that instantly cuts into any self-confidence mustered. Two words meant to seek clarification that instead unravel much of the courage it took to show up to this, or any, restaurant solo.

Sounds uncomfortable. And very much like a situation that anyone might strive to avoid. So why, you might ask, would I willingly propel myself into this scenario not just once but repeatedly?

The answer is more practical than anything else.

Over the years, I have learned so much from eating with others. My brother Teddy showed me the joys of avoiding comparison and how to live in the moment. Celia and Julia, of my trusty restaurant crew, taught me to share food and, with that, more of myself. For this, and so much more, I am forever grateful.

However, as a single 38-year-old, the reality is that more and more of my time is now spent alone. And as someone who absolutely loves trying new restaurants and different cuisines, that meant I needed to learn to embrace exploring the local food scene with no one but myself.

Of course, I’d partaken in solo meals in the past — cue the aforementioned anxiety anticipated upon arrival at the host stand. But rarely, if ever, had I done so in my hometown. Or by choice.

So, I decided to set out on a new quest, the hardest to date: to pursue my culinary passions without the constraints of company; to learn to love dining alone and, in doing so, gain insight into the Twin Cities’ dining scene and, perhaps, myself.

I had a game plan. Over the course of three months, I would pick five restaurants to try, each with a somewhat unique ambience. I’d eat out at different times of day, varied days of the week, and choose as many seating options as possible. All the while, I would jot down all my observations and any revelations.

It proved no surprise that upon arriving at my first destination — Rincon 38 — I had all the feels. How would the staff treat me? What would the other patrons think? I played every scenario out in my head and, truth be told, even wrote down many of these questions, thinking I’d focus on answering each throughout the course of every meal.

Opening the door, I found myself greeted with wide smiles and a genuine eagerness to identify my ideal seating. The staff’s warmth put me at ease, pushing some of my many worries and a bit of my high anxiety to the side. Still early September, I chose the patio, proceeded to over-order (quantity was certainly an adjustment when dining alone), and savored every bite. An hour and a half later, I left with a full stomach, satisfied spirit and an order of churros in hand to eat at home.

As the next dinner approached, and at each subsequent establishment — Gus Gus, Chilango, Bûcheron and Diane’s Place — I found my nerves dissipated faster, and the critical questions lessened, though neither ever disappeared entirely. I honed my order (small plates for the win), seating preference and overall dining style. Every meal awakened my taste buds and, no matter the setting, revealed a tip or trick that irrevocably altered future meals.

Beyond the more obvious perks — eating whenever was most convenient and choosing restaurants I’d always craved — I also encountered surprising lessons that resonated far beyond the food itself. By dining solo, I had no choice but to be present enough (the true gift of time spent alone) to realize what each moment revealed.

Over the months, I stumbled upon two helpful methods for building my confidence and comfort in and around solo dining. I lucked my way into the first, beginning my adventure at Rincon 38; but in hindsight understood its patio to be the perfect first foray into eating alone. It felt far more like a coffee shop, and the street scenes offered an instant distraction, with my eyes and ears as occupied as my taste buds.

The second, despite how counterintuitive it might sound, was that dining during peak dinner time also made me feel less alone. Sitting at Chilango’s massive and, upon my arrival, empty bar brought all the anxieties and worries flooding back. I couldn’t quite figure out why until I noticed that the more the bar filled, the more my doubt and discomfort dissipated. I’d never have expected that more people equaled more ease.

I also came to learn that one of the greatest ways to ensure a successful meal was to try and pair my seating choice with my mood. One evening I sidled up to Gus Gus’ bar at 6 p.m. On another night, I chose a bar stool at Bûcheron closer to 7:45 p.m. Both had great food, a lovely staff, and perfectly met my night-out needs, yet by very different means. The latter, occurring slightly after the dinner rush, afforded the bartender the opportunity to engage with me often, revealing that eating earlier or later in the night satisfied any desire for fun banter and conversation.

On the other hand, Gus Gus’ counter — or even a table — in the throes of supper proved ideal for those nights I wanted quiet or to enjoy time to myself. After a particularly long day in November, one that left me emotionally drained, I very nearly canceled my 9 p.m. reservation at Diane’s Place. Yet I found that sitting in the dining room provided a much sought after space to decompress. A process made all the easier by charming staff and incredible food.

Ultimately, no matter where I sat or the interaction I craved, I quickly understood that the energy I put out reflected the energy I would get back.

Perhaps even more meaningful than the concrete choices I learned to make, I gained insights that changed the entire act of dining, regardless of when, where or how I chose to pursue it; lessons that extended far beyond the moment and restaurant, that revolutionized eating out and, strangely, life itself.

I started to treat myself as I would a friend — with more empathy and more commitment than before. When returning to my quest after a few weeks’ hiatus, many of the doubts and insecurities returned, leading me to nearly bail on my fourth meal at Bûcheron. After all, no one would be affected by the change of plan but me. Yet I stuck it out, dragging my unenthusiastic self into my car, and proceeded to have one of my favorite meals in Minneapolis. I’d have never canceled on one of my companions, so why would I abandon myself?

It also became apparent that even when out alone, connection proves possible. At Rincon 38, I overheard a woman exclaim to her girlfriends, “I’m getting close to 40 but age is just a number, after all” and I never felt more seen. While sitting at Gus Gus, every single person at the bar alongside me ordered the burger and, when approached by the bartender, a couple and I shared in our adoration of its deliciousness, collectively adding it to our list of best burgers ever tasted. I’d arrived alone and yet never had any sense of loneliness.

Each restaurant and every diner approached me as they would anyone else, offering the same kindness and service; everyone expressed a happiness to share their cuisine and their space with someone eager to experience it. Every individual with whom I engaged chipped away at my preconceived notions, ultimately revealing that the list of questions I’d drafted at the onset of this quest — How did patrons view me? How did staff treat me? — were not objective or observational at all. They weren’t even rooted in worries I had around how others might see me; instead, they reflected the way in which I had come to view myself.

And in letting go of any self-judgments or critiques — and embracing the challenge of seeing myself in a new light — the world became my oyster.

Just me? Sounds great!

Alison Spencer is a Twin Cities freelance writer.