Tucked away in an unassuming corner of Chicago’s Art Institute is a 19th-century painting by American artist Fernand Lungren modestly titled “The Café.” In bold strokes of crimson and gray, the painting depicts a young Sarah Bernhardt, the French stage actress, sitting alone in a velvet banquette at the legendary Café de la Paix, her gloved hands wrapped firmly around a wine glass as she centers her gaze over the Parisian streetscape.
As a young student shuffling between the museum’s sprawling galleries, I must have walked past “The Café” dozens of times, always pausing to take in the audacious color palette and devil-may-care confidence of the painting’s subject. Here was Bernhardt, smartly dressed and enjoying a night out on the town — in the company of herself. This was the woman I wanted to become, worldly and autonomous, dressed in ostentatious ruffle dresses while sipping inky red wine and dining well and alone into the evening.
Of course I loved sharing a great meal in the presence of good and familiar company. But alone, I could take in the sights and sounds of my surroundings without obligation — to myself or anyone else.
As I began to scrape together enough money to explore new cities, I quickly discovered that sidling up to a bistro counter sans company offered up benefits that extended way beyond symbolic merit. For one thing, it was a great way to demystify the inner workings of an unfamiliar town, absorbing culture and community through steaming plates of food and amusing observation. It also afforded me the occasion to slow down considerably — lingering, if I liked, over a fortified digestif without regard.
