On Eating Alone: The Pintxo

It is not something I do often or something I do well. I have little experience in this field and therefore little comfort in it. I can’t help but remember the interaction between Rachel and Phoebe on Friends where Rachel says, “I just think I'd feel really self-conscious, you know? Like I was on display or something,” to which Phoebe responds, “I was on display once. Nothing like eating alone.” In that way I am like Rachel: I feel self-conscious, as if everyone is watching me, analyzing my table manners, judging my food and clothing choices and most of all making snide remarks about my solitude.

The problem is that when I decided to travel to Spain for three days after studying abroad in Ireland for the summer, I also embarked on a weekend of eating alone. Before I left for Spain I was determined to be okay with eating alone. I asked my friends about the etiquette of it all, if I could bring a book, if I could write in my notebook, or if I could use my phone when my food came. They answered my questions and assured me that I would be okay and I would get the hang of it.

It is now my second full day of eating alone in San Sebastian, a small coastal city in the north of Spain in a region known as País Vasco, or the Basque Country. Perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, San Sebastian, and the entire Basque region, is known for the pintxo. The pintxo is a type of food that deserves its own essay but I will do my best here to describe it. The Basque equivalent of the Spanish tapas, pintxos are small finger food usually with any combination of anchovies, shrimp, smoked salmon, prosciutto, goat cheese and an assortment of veggies, roasted and raw. Usually served a top a bruschetta type piece of toasted bread, the pintxo is a visual masterpiece fit for a foodie. But the pintxo is more than the food itself, it is the practice of eating it that makes it special (and has caused me to write an entire essay on eating the pintxo alone). Pintxos are served at bar of restaurants where there sit plates and plates of food (health code be damned!). The practice is as follows: You walk into the bar and ask for a plate; from there you take what you like from any plate you like; depending on the place and depending on if you want to eat at the bar of if you want to eat outside at a tall bar table you either begin eating or you show the barman what you haven chosen and he counts it up and tells you the damage.

So what is the problem with specifically eating pintxos alone? First, the practice is to have a few pintxos and a drink, pay, and then go to the next bar where you repeat it all again. It is not relaxing nor do I believe it is supposed to be. The bars are usually packed with people all standing around eating so you have to fight to get to the bar and then at that point you are stuck with the plates in front of you when perhaps you want something somewhere else. Now I admit all of these things would be the same if I happened to be with people. However, my solitude heightens the discomfort of this. There is no sitting down and enjoying my food in these places. There is no savoring the flavors for me. Instead there is me at the bar, unsure of the proper pintxo etiquette asking ¿cómo trabaja esto? how does this work? to the bartender. My plate is too big to fit on the bar among all the other plates and I don’t really know which way to face. What do I do with my body? Outside, couples and groups of friends occupy all the standing tables and inside families occupy all the sitting tables. I stand at the bar, moving left and right to allow people access to the different plates. I watch couples and families come in and fill plates full of pintxos to be devoured along with lively vacation conversation. When my plate is empty I get the bartender’s attention and tell him what I ate, pay the bill and leave.

I did not prepare for this type of solitary eating.  On my first night I went to four of these places, eating one or two pintxos at each place. I love the pintxo—she is tasty and light and fresh—but by the end of the night I longed for the sit down tapas restaurants of Barcelona and the rest of the world. I don’t care if people are watching me eat alone as long as I can sit down and read a book or the newspaper or write in my notebook. As long I cannot be jostled and bumped into as I stand uncomfortably at the bar. Eating alone is nothing like eating the pintxo alone.