Birthwort

It is lunchtime, and I have gone into Horn's, a little breakfast and lunch cafe in the Marigny triangle, just downriver from the French Quarter in New Orleans. Horne's is a place where you can get a pretty good basic breakfast, a nice spicy bloody mary, and a cup of coffee in a handmade pottery mug.

I don't usually have lunch here, but today I am in the neighborhood and hungry. It is slow now, a little after one o'clock on a grey November day. The lunch rush - if there was one - is long over, and other than a guy at the bar reading the paper, I'm the only customer in the place.

Fishy business

Russ & Daughters Appetizing has been on Houston between First and Allen since 1914, selling the best quality smoked fish on the planet.

On a Sunday morning at 9:00 am, it was already packed when I got there but I took a number and waited patiently along with everyone else.

It's good to have the time to look at everything in the deli case, anyway. There's smoked trout, sturgeon, sable and nearly a dozen variations on salmon, from hot kippered to cured and dilly gravlax. They have several varieties of caviar, worth their weight in gold.

Although I've never had pickled herring I was almost tempted by the New Catch Holland herring, which comes in seasonally, and is here in time for Father's Day - but alas, I'm by myself without a kitchen, so I had to pass. It wouldn't be good to keep pickled herring in my hotel room.

No, instead I chose one of their sandwiches - the Fancy Delancy. Smoked tuna with creamcheese and wasabi roe on a bialy, and a little side order of beet, apple and herring salad, it was the perfect brunch.

There's no seating at Russ & Daughters, so I found a picnic table in little Sara D. Roosevelt Park on Second Avenue, under the trees watching some old fellows practice tai chi.

Delicious!

Gather ye rosebuds

If you drive down Wilshire Boulevard in mid-city Los Angeles, you wouldn't expect to find an oasis of serenity in this urban setting, nor in the steel and glass corporate buildings that line this, one of the busiest streets in North America.

But there are a lot of paradoxes in Koreatown, and one of them is that this robust and vivid culture also values the quiet serenity of time spent in contemplation and conversation with friends. When you step in from the busy Wilshire sidewalk into Hwa Sun Ji Tea and Coffee, you feel your pulse slow and your mind ease.

Dining alone - Beauty for the eye and palate

Sometimes you just need to take yourself to lunch - alone.

I had a mid-morning meeting at an office in downtown Santa Monica, and I told my co-workers I'd take lunch before returning to work. And it was a good thing, too, because the meeting gave me a lot to think about. I wanted a quiet place to get my thoughts settled, and hide away for a moment.

Blue Stove is a restaurant in a department store, and if you think that's a throw-back to the era of ladies-who-lunch, you've got a surprise. Blue Stove is Nordstrom's new enterprise - fresh, sustainable, locally sourced food in a casual yet elegant setting.

The Santa Monica store's restaurant is tucked away in a little niche on the third floor. It feels very private - on a lunchtime Thursday, there were a few occupied tables, but I felt soothed and calmed by the quiet. The menu offers small plates at reasonable prices, but never skimps on flavor or artistry. Watermelon and feta salad with microgreens, above, cost only $5.95 - and it was beautiful, in the bargain.

Dining Alone - Beauty and soup at the mall

I'm not sure whether this is unusual, but I go through season cycles in my personal style.

Winter has brought a lack of enthusiasm. I wear pants with a simple long-sleeved tee-shirt. I wear scarves, but really it's to keep my neck warm more than for style. I stopped wearing make-up; I haven't even been wearing earrings lately.

I can tell I'm coming out of this phase - is it seasonal affect disorder? - because I suddenly had the urge to buy some fresh make-up. I've mis-laid my go-to lipstick, and the little pots of creme I dab here and there are all dried up. My few frowsty-looking eye pencils are blunt and broken. The other day, I saw a video at Une Femme d'un Certain Age about maquillage for mature women, and I thought - give that a try.

DDamn!

My cup runneth over. With sake.

They say that 80% of women are wearing the wrong bra size.

The last time I was fitted for a bra was three years ago in Paris, in the venerable Bon Marche department store on the Left Bank. A brisk, nimble grey-haired woman in a black dress with a starched white collar snapped a tape measure around my chest. After almost an hour of frenzied trying, browsing, musing, consideration, snapping on and snapping off, I ended up with three lacy confections costing more than a five course meal with wine and a post-prandial cognac.

Two scoops of gelato in Venice

But that was three years ago. Elastic sags, delicate mesh and lace tear, colors fade. It was time to re-stock my lingerie drawer, but before spending a lot of money, I wanted to make sure of my size. So this afternoon I went to Nordstrom, at Santa Monica Place.

Here, my salesgirl was a perky, dimpled blonde who must have been no more than 25 years old. Even so, she assured me she'd been put through Nordstrom's training as a lingerie fitter. She ushered me into a fitting room, wrapped her tape measure around my chest just as efficiently as Madame had - and to my surprise, I learned that I was no longer a 36C. I am a 36DD.

That's right. DD. The little girl who was taunted in high school as being flat as a pancake, at age 57 now has DD cup bazongas! Yikes.

The salesgirl brought me some bras to try on, and I liked a model by the French lingerie maker Chantelle. I asked her for one in nude and one in black. I also chose a model by Wacoal in deep brown with tawny detail. I went out on the floor and browsed the displays, but soon it became apparent to me that, while 36C is an easy size to buy off the shelf, 36DD is not.Plus, bras with enough support for a DD cup are typically higher priced items than smaller cups. Alas, I waved goodbye to the delicate and colorful La Perlas and Simone Pereles, and stuck with what I had. Three bras, plus three pairs of undies - well, let's just say it's another five-course meal with wine and cognac again.

I had plenty of headroom on my Nordstrom account - I haven't used the card in so long I had to search for it in my desk drawer before heading out. So sticker shock be damned - I won't do this again for another three years!

A little stunned I wandered out of the store with my Nordstrom shopping bag looped over my wrist and into  the cool serenity of Ozumo, a Japanese restaurant on the rooftop Dining Deck. Clearly I needed some sustenance.

Spicy pork and miso ramen

DDamn!

Dining Alone - A bite before class

It's been a very long time since I've lived the life of a college student. In my college days, I was a full-time student living in the dormitories - at least the first two years. I ate in the dining hall, but as I grew more used to the town, the lures of off-campus eateries and hash houses drew me and my friends away. Cheap, filling and fast food satisfies the cravings of caffeine-stoked and book-maddened students.

Dining Alone - at your desk

Does anyone know whether eating convenience foods after their "best by" date will kill you?

It's raining outside, I have a meeting in an hour, I'm starving for lunch, and all I have in my emergency food stash in my desk drawer is a container of Healthy Choice lentil soup with an expiration date of December 2010.

Lunchtime gives me a chance to do my French homework, which is due this evening in class. Our professor claims that writing out your answers in longhand really helps you remember and mentally process the language.

My emergency food stash is for exactly such an occasion - when I don't want to go out for lunch, or don't have time to, or don't have enough cash on hand. I usually have on hand some individual serving-size cans of tuna; sealed containers of soup or Kraft mac and cheese, packets of instant ramen or Thai noodles. My problem is that sometimes I get hungry and eat them even when I can go out to lunch, so when a day like today comes up, I end up with expired lentil soup.

It wasn't so bad, spiced up with a squirt from a plastic packet of Taco Bell hot sauce, also in the drawer.

What's in your emergency stash drawer where you work?

Dining Alone - Sustainable virtue at the lunch counter

Lately I've been eating lunch at my desk, or walking for take-out with a co-worker, but sometimes I just want to get out by myself. That's exactly what I did this week.

At the lunch rush, single diners are encouraged to sit at the counter or bar instead of occupying the valuable real estate of a table. This being Santa Monica, the lunch counter was part of a large new natural healthy food restaurant on the ground floor of a newly opened trendy urban mall.

Dining Alone - A dark street

I'm pretty adventurous, and I think I have some street smarts. As a young woman I lived in some pretty scarey sections of New York City, and because of my job, I often came home late at night or in the early hours of the morning. I feel pretty confident exploring strange cities on my own.

But I also have a good "spidey sense" that I heed when it comes over me.

On our recent trip to New Orleans, [The Man I Love] had an evening meeting, and I was on my own. I had a short list of restaurants I wanted to try, and thought I'd choose one for a solo dinner on a Monday night.

Monday nights are tough for dining in most cities, including New Orleans, but Gautreau's was open. I made a reservation for one, at 7:00 pm.

Sadly, New Orleans has a crime problem, and tourists are typically warned to beware. But Gautreau's is located in Uptown, on Soniat Street, which isn't one of the neighborhoods you hear bad things about.

In late February, it was twilight when I boarded the St. Charles streetcar. I asked the driver to let me know what stop was closest to Soniat Street. He told me it was between stops, but he'd let me off just a block before.

As I crossed St. Charles Avenue and turned to watch, two streetcars passed one another in the dusk.

It was a pretty evening. I turned off the Avenue and walked north. I passed old homes behind brick-piered fences, shaded by old spreading oaks, and looked at the address numbers.

If you look closely at this tile-marked intersection, you'll see what I missed. It was right in front of me.

I'd read that Gautreau's was located in a quiet neighborhood, and it was tricky to find, since it didn't have a sign. But when I got to what should have been the right number, it didn't seem right.

I went on. At the corner on Daneel Street, a large industrial building loomed in the darkness. On the far corner, there was a building like a gym, and from within came the sounds of basketballs bouncing on hardwood floors, and shouting youths. Beyond were asphalt parking lots, fenced with barbed wire. It didn't seem right.

And then I looked at the street sign. I wasn't on Soniat Street. I was on Dufosset Street. What a dummy I was! I hadn't even looked at the sign when I turned off St. Charles.

Well. I knew it had to be just a block or two one way or the other. But which way? I tell you, I don't know how I felt exactly. I wasn't frightened, but some of the reviews had mentioned things like "take a cab" and "it's a sketchy neighborhood." Mostly I just felt like I wanted to know the quickest way, because I didn't want to arrive late for my reservation.

So as I stood, briefly, on the corner of Dufosset and Daneel, wondering if I should pull my cellphone out of my bag and check the Yelp listing map, I realized that, parked on the curb at Daneel, pointing toward the basketball gym, was a NOPD patrol car, idling, with an officer at the wheel.

I crossed the street and walked up to the passengers side - the window was open - and said, "Excuse me, sir, can you tell me which direction is Soniat Street?"

Let me say that my experience with police officers is a positive yet pragmatic one. I have worked together with them in crowd control situations many times, and have never encountered them personally in a negative way. I'm respectful, and appreciate their work. On the other hand, I've learned - I've been on the receiving end, professionally - that sometimes police officers think of "civilians" as lesser beings, folks who just don't know the whole picture. (As a member of another subgroup that thinks the same, I can empathize.)

This officer said to me, flatly, "I wouldn't know." Now - excuse me - but why would a police officer not know the streets where he was on patrol?

That was the moment that my spidey-sense, which I mentioned before, began to flare like a strobe light. Was he on a stake-out? Was something going down? Was I in the wrong place? Did he think I was suspicious? I felt a flutter of unease.

"Okay," I said, "thanks!" and I hitched my bag up higher on my shoulder and kept walking, and fortunately I had turned in the right direction, for there was Soniat Street at the next corner.

And there was Gautreau's. Gautreau's is a small restaurant, in an historic building that was once a pharmacy. It's often described in reviews as a "jewel box" of a place, with an ornate tin ceiling, an antique apothecary case housing the bar, and pretty trompe d'oeil painted walls. It has a superb chef, and has received rave reviews for its food.

As I sat at my single table in the corner, waiting for my heartbeat to slow, I sipped at an apertif of Lillet blanc on the rocks with a twist. A part of twelve or so business-people - dressed in suits and dressy dresses - were assembled at a table nearby and were loudly celebrating some corporate achievement. At other tables, couples sat in the amber candlelight.

The restaurant is named after Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, who was an ancestor of its founder and first chef, Ann Russell Avegno. A Louisiana Creole girl, she was the daughter of a Confederate general who moved with her mother to Paris at the age of eight. When she grew up she married a banker and became notorious for her beauty, elegance and love affairs. Her portrait was painted by John Singer Sargent in 1884 - and it shocked the art world with its sensuality.

A print of the famous painting hangs in an alcove just behind the hostess station at Gautreau's.

It was unsettling to move from the dark immediacy of the streets into this lush, protected, elitist refuge. Between the cheerfulness of the large party, and the intimacy of the romantic couples, I felt out of place - which is rare for me.

I ordered a meal. I ate. I savored each bite, each sip. I even had dessert - something I rarely do. It cost quite a lot. When I was ready to go, I asked the waiter to call me a cab.

It's all a blur to me. I couldn't tell you what I ate. Scallops, I think. The only vivid memory I have is of the journey there.

I wanted to check my facts after coming away from this experience. Was I right to feel nervous? So I checked the archives of the Times-Picayune newspaper, and the local neighborhood website for this area both going back a year or so, and found that, while there were occasional crimes as there are in every city, this wasn't all that bad a neighborhood, statistically.

In retrospect, I really wonder about the officer I encountered. I think it would be quite obvious that a middle aged white lady with a northern accent in that neighborhood around dinner time was looking for Gautreau's restaurant - a pretty famous tourist attraction. He could easily have directed me right to its door, and I would have come away with a memory of his charming courtesy. He was probably just having a bad night.

Dining Alone is often an unexpected adventure - have you ever felt unsafe going to a restaurant by yourself?

Dining Alone - The sushi bar

Hiroshige - "Bowl of Sushi" 19th century

If you're not familiar with Japanese cuisine, the sushi bar might seem challenging. But a sushi bar is a place where anyone can feel comfortable dining alone. Except you're actually not alone. When you sit at the sushi bar, you are in a relationship with a true artist of food - the sushi chef, or itamae.

Los Angeles is home to many trendy sushi bars, where you can get fabulous concoctions and fusion-inspired combinations, complete with grilled pineapples, waving insect antennae crafted from carrots, mayonnaise-based sauces and fried fish skeletons - but Hide Sushi on Sawtelle Boulevard isn't one of them.

It's just a small neighborhood joint, simple and friendly. There are about eight chairs at the sushi bar, and a handful of tables in the small room. Have a seat at the sushi bar. Hide Sushi has three chefs working during a busy weekend lunch hour.

When the hostess seats you, she offers a warm damp towel. This is to clean your hands. Do so, and then fold the towel and place it so that you can use it again to wipe your fingers while you eat. You order hot food, drinks, soup, etc. from the waitress. You order sushi and sashimi from the sushi chef. That's the way it works.

The sushi bar has a raised shelf above the main part of the table. The chef will put a plate - usually a rectangular platter - on this shelf, and upon it you'll find a thimble-sized nub of green wasabi and a flower-sized cluster of finely sliced pickled ginger. Be patient. Take your time. The itamae may be working on someone else's order.

I usually watch politely as he works, then wait for a subtle signal like a nod, or eye contact. You can ask for something you like. Or you can ask for what he recommends. What's good? What's in fresh today? If you wish, you can ask for omakase or chef's choice, which means you put yourself in his hands. He may ask you what you like, or if there's something you don't like.

If you want a long and varied meal, start with sashimi - this is simply raw fish, sliced and served without rice. Sometimes it will come with a simple sauce or flavored oil, or a sprinkling of herbs like scallions or shizo leaf. You eat sashimi with chopsticks. You can get something called chirashi-sushi that is sashimi served on top of sushi rice in a bowl.

The chef will place the sushi on the platter. Keep the platter on the upper shelf for his convenience. You may be given another plate to keep in front of you - or he may serve some kinds on their own platter, especially if they are served with sauce.

"Sushi" means the rice, not the fish. The rice is flavored with vinegar, and it's served with toppings, fillings, or condiments. There are mainly four different styles.

Tuna, yellowtail and octopus nigirizushi and cucumber, oshinko and pickled plum makizushi

Nigirizushi is rice pressed into an oblong about the size of your thumb. A slice of fish or seafood is laid on top of it - often with a bit of wasabi, or the grated root of a plant similar to horseradish. Nigirizushi is usually served two pieces to the order.

Makizushi is made by lining a sheet of dried seaweed, or nori, with rice, topping it with fillings, and then rolling it up into a tight cylinder. The cylinder is then cut into bit-size pieces - an order may have five or six pieces. You can have small maki, with just one filling, or you can have larger maki - futomaki - made with an assortment of fillers. California rolls are a kind of futomaki.

Gunkanmaki (or battleship roll) - is similar to nigirizushi, with a pressed oval of rice topped with seafood, but it's wrapped with a collar of nori to help enclose a topping that's loose - like fish eggs - or soft, like sea urchin.

Temaki are also called handrolls. A sheet of nori is rolled into a cone, and filled up with ingredients like an ice-cream cone.

If you worry about it, the etiquette of eating sushi is somewhat daunting. It's good to know what NOT to do, that might offend the chef. But the rules are pretty simple, and in Los Angeles today, I think most sushi chefs have seen just about anything, and are pretty tolerant.

At Hide Sushi, the chef who served me was a dignified and quiet man with a nice smile, and it would have pained me to be impolite to him. And while I'm too tongue-tied to speak to him in the few Japanese phrases I know, I do try to remember these basic steps:

1) Don't scrape your chopsticks together as though to rub off splinters. This implies the chopsticks are cheap, so it's an insult.

2) Pour a little soy sauce in the dish, but don't mix wasabi in it. The chef has flavored your sushi as he intended, so trust him. If you find you'd like more wasabi on the sushi, ask the chef to put more on the next piece he makes for you.

3) Dip the fish side into the soy, not the rice side.

4) It's OK to eat with your fingers, or with chopsticks. I use my fingers.

5) Try to eat the sushi in one bite - or if you have to eat it in two bites, do so at once, don't put a bitten-in-half piece back on the platter. I'm told American sushi tends to be bigger than that served in Japan. I have to take two bites for most, except the small maki.

The pickled ginger is meant to be a palate cleanser between different flavors. I take a tiny sliver with my chopsticks, and I love the spicy taste.

L to R top: Saba (mackerel), Sake (salmon), Ebi (shrimp) nigirizushi. Bottom: Maguro (tuna), Yellowtail nigirizushi, Tobiko gunkanmaki

I like simple sushi - I don't generally go in for the fancy rolls. I like plain good fish like fatty tuna, albacore, and yellowtail. I also like the salty, strong-tasting mackerel, called saba in Japanese. I also like scallops, and ankimo (or monkfish liver), and tobiko, or flying fish roe with tiny bright red eggs that crunch between my teeth. I'm not a fan of sea urchin, and while I like octopus all right I have hard time chewing it. One of my favorite maki rolls is oshinko-maki, which is just pickled daikon - I love its odd taste and its vegetable crunch.

Cherry blossoms on the sidewalk in front of Hide Sushi

The simple and traditional fare served at Hide Sushi makes me remember when I first ate sushi with my dad, in New York City. I lived in the Village and worked in dingy lofts on the Lower East Side doing theatre, and my dad commuted into town from New Jersey to work for corporate clients as a consultant. Sometimes he'd invite me to lunch. The part of town where he worked was filled with Japanese restaurants and ramen shops, and sushi shops. It was the 1970s, but in Manhattan, on Third Avenue in midtown, no one was making California rolls.

I never sat at a sushi bar with Dad, we always sat at the dining tables. I don't know, now, whether he sat at the bar when he visited these restaurants alone. I like to think that he did - he was exactly the kind of person who would have enjoyed the polite, somewhat ritualized relationship between customer and sushi chef.

Dining Alone - Up in the Air

There are often times when you Dine Alone even while sharing an extremely crowded space with other people. Recently, I spent three hours on a plane, in Coach, in the middle seat - Dining Alone.

Every element of a plane's interior is calculated to cram the highest number of people inside. In order to accomplish this without making passengers crazed, the Boeing Company, manufacturer of most of our airlines, have experts on their staff who specialize in understanding passengers' perception of comfort.

Sometimes it's an optical illusion. Airplane interior designers can trick passengers into having a sense of roominess by putting the widest part of the plane at eye level - about 48".

Today, the typical economy class airline seat is 17 inches wide with a "pitch" - which is defined as the space between your seatback and the surface of the seat in front of you - between 31 and 33 inches. You can get your tape measure out and see what that space looks like.

It's not surprising then, that the most critical element in making passengers comfortable is whether the middle seat is occupied. I would assert that this is especially the case if you happen to be the seat's occupant.

I am all too familiar with the middle seat. Traveling with my family - two full-grown men - I end up between them, giving them the extra elbow room on Aisle or Window.

This last flight, my seat was separated from my husband's, so I got the middle seat and didn't even have the luxury of being able to snooze on a friendly neighboring shoulder.

My seat mates were an older man who spent the flight reading legal documents, and a young college-age boy, who put his earbuds in and promptly went to sleep. I tucked my elbows in and read my book, until the attendants came by with the refreshment cart.

No one expects much from airline food anymore, but Delta Airlines now offers a cheese and fruit plate. Described as "a delectable assortment" it offers "Aged Cheddar, Havarti, and Smoked Fontina, paired with juicy green grapes, pecan halves, dried apricots, and served with crackers."

A Delta photo accompanying a 2009 newspaper article shows red, not green grapes, and a wedge of what looks like sage derby - but who's quibbling?

I ordered it, along with a little bottle of red wine.

What I actually got was a bit different. On a little white plastic tray, there were two slices of apple - one slice green-skinned and the other red. There were two sealed plastic packets with three sesame crackers inside each one. A little plastic pot held some kind of pale golden fruity jelly. There were three servings of cheese. One pale, probably Monterey Jack; one mottled orange and pale - probably Cojack; rectangular pieces about the size and texture of a bar of cheap hotel soap. The third was a wedge of domestic brie or camembert. No nuts, no dried apricots.

I cracked the seal on the little bottle, and poured myself about an inch of wine. I spread a little of the jelly and used it to glue down a sliver of jack cheese to a cracker.

The apples were crisp and actually had some flavor. A bite of apple followed by a bite of Cojack mellowed the tannin in the cheap wine.

Since my expectations were already low, it was surprisingly pleasant.

The only item that wasn't palatable was the "brie" - younger than the infant screaming in the seat across the aisle, it was quite cold and covered with a rind as powdery as talc, tasting of mold.

In "The Gastronomical Me," M.F. K. Fisher writes of her experience with airline food, on a flight she took from California to Guadalajara in the 1940s. In those days, airlines served substantial meals, though the quality was as iffy as today. A sealed cup of hot consomme, cottage cheese with a canned pear half, jello salad and three sandwiches on tasteless white bread lay nestled in a plastic tray enclosed in paper boxes and wrappings.

She ignores the ersatz salads, and combines the fillings from the sandwiches all together in one, which she seasons with the salt and pepper from tiny shakers included in the meal tray. She half empties a cup of water, reaches into her purse, and

"I poured in a good shot of bourbon from my flask, looked out of the window and toasted a cloud...and almost at once felt even better than I had before...

It turned out very well. It was a pleasant lunch, small yet nourishing, and I concocted it with a neatness and intense dispatch impossible anywhere but high above the earth, so that it was not ridiculous or gross or even finicky while I did it.

When I had finished I drank the bonne bouche of water and bourbon in my cup, rolled up all the odds and ends of paper into a little plug for one of the elaborate number of holes in the tray, and put all the cups and plates and uneaten things of food as best I could in the remaining places."

Yes, in those days you could still bring liquid on board.

I thought about her as I poured another inch of wine into my plastic glass and nibbled the last of the cheese, listening to the dull roar of the engines and the buzzing of my seatmate's earbuds as we soared above the clouds.

Dining Alone - Galatoire's

Galatoire's Restaurant on Bourbon Street opened in 1905, when Jean Galatoire bought a restaurant that had been on that site since 1837 and renamed it.

Surrounded by strip clubs and touristy hurricane bars now, it remains an oasis of timeless grace, once you push past the double doors and enter the lobby.

Regulars here ask for their favorite waiter, who knows their preferences. Many folks never look at the menu, trusting the waiter to bring them something they will enjoy. Some folks even maintain a tab at Galatoire's - a monthly bill is mailed to their address.

At dinner gentlemen must wear jacket and tie. Lunch is more relaxed; business casual is allowed. Friday lunches are so popular the lines form hours ahead - there are no reservations at Galatoire's.

I stepped into the hushed lobby from the moist beery fumes of Bourbon Street a little after one o'clock. I was immediately ushered to an immaculate table facing the room. Although I normally find being called "ma'am" a little odd, in this place it was perfect.


It's a high-ceilinged room, the walls lined with mirrors framed in white painted wordwork. There are brass hooks for your coat and hat. Above, green wallpaper patterned with gold fleur-de-lis, and from the ceiling, paddle-bladed fans hang over the tables.

It's a loud room, the relaxed and festive voices of the crowd - mostly men in suits - bounce off the hexagonal tile floor.

There were ladies, too - of two varieties. One wore vacation garb, whites and dressy sandals and cool linen blouses, their fair hair brushed back off their foreheads. The other type wore business suits or day dresses, heels, and delicate jewelry.

My waiter brought a crusty french roll and a butter dish, and my chilled glass of chardonnay. The flatware was polished silver. I ordered an appetizer combo featuring crabmeat maison and shrimp remoulade - two classic offerings that have been served here since the place opened.

At some point the matire d' stopped by my table and greeted me in a polite Southern drawl, and asked if I had been here before. Was I from here or from out of town? I told him my story - I was with my husband here on business, but on my own while he worked - and he wished me a pleasant stay.

I felt I could have been a character in a book, or a history written forty years ago. I felt wrapped in tradition, grace, and gentility. How rare and strange this is - you can preserve buildings, but it's a marvel to take a historical atmosphere and preserve that.

Dining alone

How often do you dine alone?

I don't mean sitting in the kitchen eating Kraft Mac & Cheese out of the sauce pan - although that has a certain delicious comfort to it. I mean going out to restaurants by yourself and having a meal.

MFK Fisher wrote about Dining Alone. She wrote of the great Roman host Lucullus, who was famous for throwing fabulous feasts. But one night he ordered a meal just for himself - and noted at once the lack of care in its preparation. He summoned his kitchen staff for an explanation.

The fellow stammered out that they'd felt no need to prepare a fine feast when there were no important guests to impress.

"It is precisely when I am alone," Fisher quotes Lucullus answering, "that you require to pay special attention to the dinner. At such times, you must remember, Lucullus dines with Lucullus!"

Fisher herself learned to enjoy dining alone in public without being bothered or self-conscious. "I sat alone and ate judiciously and with amiable concentration.... I read, and drank without ever showing but a self-contained enjoyment, and seemed not to want better company than my own."

I recently enjoyed a satisfying lunch at the Border Grill in Santa Monica. I attended a meeting at a nearby office, and by the time it ended it was lunchtime. The Border Grill has a weekday lunch promotion - $10 lunch if you eat at the bar.

Although the Border Grill is a very noisy restaurant when it's busy, that afternoon it was quiet. The huge box-like space with its black walls painted with giant drawings of faces was dark.

I perched on a tall stool at the bar, and while I sipped a diet Coke waiting for my lunch I watched the bartender cutting up his garnishes and organizing his materials. There was space for me to lay out my notebook and review my notes from the meeting. I scanned my phone to see if any new emails had come in, and then the bartender placed a small oval plate before me.

Image from the Border Grill site. Click on the picture for their slide show

A sweet corn tamale, wrapped in a cornhusk and tied with a little bow, like a gift. Two little round dishes were on the side, one with a dollop of crema, the other with chopped pico de gallo.

He also delivered a basket of tortilla chips and salsa. I love the way Border Grill presents salsa - there's a little round steel dish containing three smaller round steel dishes, with three different salsas. Here was a brick-orange chile salsa, another darker one, with bits of seeds and charred skin, and a third bright green and fresh with tomatillos.

When you dine alone, you can carefully savor each little bite, without the distraction of conversation. The sweetness of the tamale was tempered with the bit of the pico de gallo, and mellowed with the sourness of the crema.

The next course was another tamale, but very different. Wrapped in banana leaf, this was stuffed with chicken and olives and chopped onions, and napped overall with a rich Oxacan mole that was so dark it was almost black. On top was a salad with some greens and some slivered pear, in a citrusy vinaigrette.

What a different taste this was! The mole was so complex and alkaline it was almost bitter - a dab of crema mellowed it considerably. The crisp bite of the pears and vinaigrette lent a nice contrast. The chicken filling was piquant in a different way. It was like having three distinct flavors in one mouthful.

To look at the two little tamales, you might think it was a small and meager lunch. But masa harina can be very filling, and as it turned out, the portion size was perfect. Not too much and not too little.

A few more bites of chips dunked in salsa, another pull at the straw for the last of the diet Coke, and I was ready to head back to my office. It was a nice break from the weekday routine, to center my head.

How do you get away from it all when you need some quality alone time?