The Invisible Screen

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I had only been seated a few minutes at Quintonil’s chef counter in Mexico City when the empty barstool to my right was pulled out and a young man slid in next to me.  As he was getting settled, the maître d’ asked where he was from. The young man said Chicago.

Not wanting to seem overbearing or overeager, I waited a few minutes before sharing with my new seat companion that I, too, was from Chicago.  At first, it felt like a risk to cross the invisible screen between us.  What if I annoyed him? Or he annoyed me? What if I created an awkward dynamic that hung in the air until the third or fourth wine pairing finally washed it all away? Quintonil’s tasting menu would last several hours, after all.

I didn’t want this stranger thinking I didn’t know the unspoken rules of engaging a fellow solo, self-led diner.  Sometimes we want to be left alone to our thoughts, inboxes, silly games and social feeds, and other times we’re thirsty for conversation.  Just because we’re dining alone doesn’t mean we’re lonely, sorry saps lacking for social fulfillment, desperate for a book or magazine in any language to skim. 

As a foodie who loves to relish every last bite, I also wanted to be respectful of his game plan for that afternoon.  Our lunch promised to be a truly special culinary experience, and he may have wanted to keep all of his attention on the bites and sips in front of him.

Then, there was the worry that, if things went south in the initial how-do-you-do exchange, I would have to spend the next three hours elbow to elbow with a pompous, pretentious Gen Z jerk.  So breaking the ice could mean introducing an ugly energy into an otherwise sublime setting.

It’s probably worth noting that all of this pitiful pirouetting wasn’t playing out with lots of hand-wringing in an agonizing drawn-out fashion. It was resolved instead behind a series of rapid-fire moves I played out in my head just before betting on the come and piping up.  

The conversation between us couldn’t have taken off any better.  We effortlessly eased into an elevated brand of travel small talk: where else we were eating in Mexico City, what museums we had already taken in, and what restaurants were top of our Chicago food scene lists back home. 

As the meal went on, we chatted around one phenomenal course after another, finding ways to break naturally to enjoy every dish, reconvening as naturally to discuss our first impression of it.  I was glad my seatmate hadn’t chosen to go silent or feign preoccupation.  I enjoyed sharing this meal with another person, not just dining next to someone else, but really exploring curiosity and taste with them.

As we settled into a natural rhythm –  eating, sipping, sharing, absorbing – the conversation eventually graduated to headier issues around career, purpose and creative calling.

I remember feeling an instant kinship with him.  He was wise beyond his years, well-traveled and well-read.  He seemed like a genuinely kind and gentle being.   Because I feel like the pressures of society demand I do,  I will caveat that this was never a budding romantic connection. But I do believe it was a soulful one.  We even met up recently for dinner at Mi Tocaya Antojería in Chicago. 

What had started in Mexico City as a random taste-led encounter between two strangers from the same city, seated next to one another in a different country, had led to the two of us, now acquaintances with compatible tastes, dining at yet another dynamite Mexican restaurant. 

On the other side of the invisible screen, we might just find the kind of person who becomes a friend where there was once only a stranger.