A table for one & a cup of Joe with a shot of confidence

A table for one & a cup of Joe with a shot of confidence

So there I was, basically stranded in Center City Philadelphia during a really nasty, rainy afternoon. I'd made arrangements to meet my husband for a ride home at a busy location on Walnut Street, but he was running late (thank heaven for cell phones) and I was in no mood to dart in and out of stores I'd already visited.

Of course I had no umbrella. I only carry them when it doesn't rain.

So what to do?

Just steps away from our designated meeting spot was a chic restaurant I'd never ventured into. It was mid-afternoon, a between-meals time. But when I peeked in, I saw that even at this off-hour, a few tables were occupied by welldressed urbanites. My initial impression was that they all looked prosperous and important.

So I started some self-talk: "You're a grown woman. You need a warm, dry place to wait. Walk in, order a cup of coffee and spend 30 minutes…"

The next gust of wind and sleet in my face and hair convinced me to do the deed.

So I stepped into this fabled Philadelphia restaurant looking like that proverbial drowned rat. The hostess gave me one of those withering glances I've occasionally gotten when I wander into the wrong hair salon or boutique, the "What are YOU doing here? look."

I don't know where I got the courage to stare right back, but I did.

"Table for one?" she asked. It's a question I've almost never answered in the affirmative, and it made me wince. In a long married life, and in one punctuated, happily, by restaurant meals with others, a table for one was not my style.

Once again, I steeled myself and nodded. Yes, I'd be needing a table for one.

There was the awkward scramble to get out of my wet coat, to stash my wet gloves in a pocket and to try to shake my wild hair into place. Were people staring? Was I becoming a spectacle, a kind of street person run amok?

But when I looked up, the well-dressed, well-groomed sophisticates were nibbling at their mid-afternoon fare and talking to one another. And I was the only table for one occupant in the place.

I think all of us bring a certain amount of self-consciousness to the party. I suspect that it's far more prevalent in women, and particularly in women seated alone in restaurants.

And suddenly, I was determined to tough it out.

My mind was racing ahead. What in the world would I order at three in the afternoon, after I'd already had lunch and wasn't a bit hungry?

Would ordering a simple cup of decaffeinated coffee be acceptable in a place where the tablecloths were white and starched and each waiter seemed to be wearing some variation of a tuxedo. Yikes!

It was going to have to be.

I honestly believe there was a slightly raised eyebrow when I ordered my decaffeinated coffee and turned down offers of "some lovely pastries, Madam," or light sandwiches and a house special that began with the word confit.

Let me cut to the chase— that half hour did seem very, very long. I had nothing to read, no one to talk to, and I was definitely not in a place within my comfort zone.

But I can also report that the rhythms of this restaurant went right on despite the bedraggled woman in its midst. The decaf was strong and hot and I nursed it far longer than my usual hit-andrun style.

And I blush to admit that eavesdropping on the couple nearby was delicious. I could invent all sorts of scenarios about them. Were they lovers sneaking out in the sleet to be together? Long-lost college friends? Colleagues plotting the overthrow of their company's CEO?

My self-imposed poise test lasted until I forced myself into my damp coat and back into the elements, this time huddled under a roof overhang and scanning Walnut Street for the welcome sight of my husband and our car. When it pulled up, it might have been a chariot, so delighted was I to step inside.

"So what did you do while you were waiting?" my husband asked.

And I somehow found it hard to explain to him that I'd taken—and passed—an interesting test. pinegander@aol.com