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I Tried Solo Dining as a Socially Anxious Ambivert. Here’s How it Went
I never imagined my first margarita at Omnia Bistro would be served with a side of existential dread.
Dining alone is a foreign concept to me.
Okay, maybe not entirely foreign. I’ve sat in cafes, delicately balancing my morning bagel on one half of the table and laptop on the other, headphones on, deeply engrossed in work. Some would call that solo dining, but to me? That’s strictly business.
Intentionally eating alone at a fancy restaurant has never sparked any sort of enthusiasm in me. In fact, when I was brainstorming new article ideas for the month and this crossed my mind, a rapid current of dread washed over me. I love catching up with friends over dinner, hearing the ins, outs and the recent developments of their lives. Watching the sparkle in their eyes as they yap away fills me with joy. So why on earth was I sitting at my desk, researching the search volume on ‘solo dining’?
I almost didn’t pitch the article. But in a haze of 3pm sleepies and creative drought, I tossed it out anyway. To my surprise, my editor loved it. And so, armed with equal parts curiosity and fear, I made my reservation — a table for one at South Yarra’s Omnia Bistro.
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Why Am I Dining Solo?
I’m a socially anxious ambivert. While I’m loud and outgoing amongst friends, I retract into my shell in unfamiliar social situations. The social butterfly within me dissipates. In its place is what feels like a small child lost in a supermarket, looking around wildly for her mother. And I’m pretty tired of feeling this way — it’s exhausting.
This year, instead of a New Year’s Resolution, I set myself a motto: Alyssa’s Fun New Year of Fun New Things, where I stop saying no to scary things and just dive in. It’s led me to some pretty incredible experiences.
So, while eating alone at a hotspot terrifies me, I’d be doing myself a disservice not to give it a red hot go, especially in the spirit of my year of saying yes.
The Solo Dining Experience
I wasn’t looking forward to dining solo. In fact, I had spent the whole day fighting off the urge to reschedule after having a foul day, wallowing in the aftermath of a bad haircut (the girls that get it, get it). All I wanted to do was curl up with my cat under the covers and doom scroll TikTok for hours on end. Fueled by equal parts fear of disappointing people and guilt over cancelling plans, I hopped in my Hyundai and drove to South Yarra.
To make things worse, I’d booked a prime-time Thursday night — and I had only myself to blame. Earlier in the week felt like a cop-out, with its quieter, more forgiving atmosphere. I wanted to experience solo dining in its truest form: bustling waitstaff, tables filled, the room buzzing with laughter and chatter, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and clatter of plates.
It was 6:11pm. I was anxiously half-trotting along Chapel Street towards Omnia Bistro, my heart rate high from both the quick pace and mental state — as well as the fact that I was running late.
As I stepped inside, I noticed it wasn’t too crowded, which made me feel slightly better. The host offered me two tables: one by the window, in case I wanted to watch the busy street go by, or a booth, which was a little more sheltered, nestled along the wall in front of the kitchen. Choosing my own table made the experience feel less intimidating — as though I wasn’t just some awkward anomaly, but someone who was meant to be there.
Shedding my coat and scarf and sliding into the booth, I carefully observed my surroundings. To my right, empty booths lay waiting for their evening guests. To my left, lush green foliage hung from the ceiling, sheltering a magnificent bar where a fellow solo diner sat quietly, sipping on a lager and staring into the distance. Opposite him, two men were deep in conversation, speaking in hushed tones. The man on the right’s phone lit up, illuminating his face and momentarily distracting him as his thumb hovered over the screen before he quickly tucked it away in his pocket.
In front of me, three chefs were busy at work. The Head Chef was bent over the counter, reciting people’s orders to his staff as they scurried too and fro. I could hear my entrees on the list: a scallop with chorizo and parsnip puree and a smoked ocean trout cigar.
Sipping on my seasonal margarita — a unique blend of mandarin and carrot with a slightly spicy salt rim — I reach for my notebook and open to a blank page. When I was planning this experience, I set a rule for myself: I couldn’t go on my phone, other than to take a photo of my food (after all, the phone always eats first).
As my entrees arrived, a couple were shown to the booth beside me. I glanced up nervously. The woman caught my eye before sliding into the seat opposite her partner, and my brain instantly decided she was judging me. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact I was struggling to cut into my tuna cigar — wincing as chives tumbled off each end while the crispy pastry refused to break. (Yes, I could have picked it up with my fingers, but my anxiety insisted that it was a breach of solo dining etiquette.)
My miniature spiral was interrupted by my waitress coming over with a small plate.
“This is my favourite snack,” she smiled as she placed it on the table. Thanking her, I did my best not to let my jaw drop as my eyes feasted over the crumpet topped with caviar, smoked eel and crème fraîche.
As I bit into the crumpet and savoured the mix of savoury and salty flavours dancing on my tastebuds, I realised that in the silence of dining alone, I could focus on the taste of every bite, rather than straining to hear what my company was saying or chewing as quickly as possible in order to respond. And with these dishes? That focus felt divine.
Still, I caught myself glancing up from my journal each time a staff member walked past, suddenly self-conscious that I hadn’t yet touched my scallop and was too busy writing. Were they annoyed I was dragging out my meal instead of quickly scoffing it down and freeing up the booth for a larger party? I took a breath and tried to let it go. It’s all in your head, I reminded myself. You have every right to be here, just like everyone else.
Turning my focus back to my journal, I continued spilling my emotions from the last tumultuous 24 hours onto the page, slowly enjoying the refreshing-yet-spicy scallop. With the bartender shaking up cocktails and sizzling from the kitchen as my backdrop, my booth provided a safe haven for solitude.
Journaling with Omnia’s ambience had me so immersed, I had to remind myself to look up and people watch. It was busier now. A woman had joined one of the two men standing at the bar when I first arrived — the one with the phone. They sat close together, him chuckling as she leant over and whispered something, a cheeky smile on her face. Another couple — two regulars — were now sitting on my right, asking their waitress if she was a new employee. In the kitchen, another chef had clocked on.
The waitress serving me brought over my main, a Sher Wagyu MB6+ bavette steak frites with a tarragon emulsion and Bordelaise sauce, with the chips stacked high like Jenga. Cutting into the wagyu, I realised the edge had eased off my nerves. Whether it was the journaling or the incredible food (or a combination of both), I felt at peace. Placing my notebook to the side, I watched the kitchen at work as I calmly ate my meal, relishing as the Wagyu melted in my mouth.
My peace was abruptly interrupted when a piece of lettuce fell off my fork on its way to my mouth. Feeling my cheeks burn red, I braced myself for the judgemental stares. However, no one cared, let alone glanced in my direction! At that moment, I realised the only person watching me… was me.
Stuffed, content, and smiling to myself, I thanked the staff for a wonderful evening and stepped back out onto Chapel Street, full not just of food, but with a quiet sense of pride.
Solo Dining: The Verdict
So, I survived dining solo. Turns out, all those hours of overthinking were for nothing.
Eating alone wasn’t only peaceful, it was therapeutic. Food is the window to the soul — especially when it’s Omnia’s menu — and paired with my journal, a cocktail, and the freedom to fill the silence on my own terms, it became the kind of self-date I didn’t know I needed.
It turns out, like most of the things we build up in our heads, solo dining really isn’t that deep. And now that I know that? I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Enjoyed reading about Alyssa’s experience dining solo for the first time? Check out our content producer’s perfect weekend in Melbourne, or book in your very own solo dining experience at one of our city’s must-book restaurants.
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