Raven Smith on the ardent desire to dine out
Our resident columnist fantasises about swapping at-home hosting for one for friends, fancy tables and glasses being refilled without a single trip to the fridge
By Raven Smith Illustration by Elena Xausa Friday 3 July, 2020 Short read
In my personal Solo House™, I am fond of a bastardised Picante de la Casa, poured over ice from a jar of tequila and slices of jalapenos I keep on standby for a post-laptop evening celebration. Then shimmy-shaken with all those good barman additions that make you feel like you’re not drinking pure shots. This abominable attempt at fine cocktailing accompanies whatever tinned food I’ve warmed on the hob for my dinner, because, dear reader, I have lost my edge when it comes to cooking.
'I got sick of cooking. Bored, really. The predictability of the end result became somewhat tiresome – carrots tend to always come out tasting of carrots, don’t they?'
Of course, much like the yoga, the long walks and the binge drinking, I got sick of cooking. Bored, really. The predictability of the end result became somewhat tiresome – carrots tend to always come out tasting of carrots, don’t they? The absence of surprise has made my heart grow fetishistically fond for the great wide world, and by that I mean dining out. In getting tired of cooking, I’ve realised the mystery that dining out can hold. The thrill of knowing what’s in the cupboards at home, but opening a menu and choosing whatever takes your fancy. The utter joy of meandering through a series of courses and sides that take no more prep than saying them out loud to a server. I dream of that short cycle of craving something and eating it. Of dishes I didn’t know I wanted until I saw it on the menu. I dream of marbled dining rooms and striped umbrellaed alfresco munches. Of glasses being refilled without a single trip to the fridge or off-licence. Of balmy evenings. Of good company. Of secrets spilling from loose lips.