It gets cold. Sometimes it snows. The moss grows everywhere. You eat and drink too much because you can’t get outdoors and do anything resembling physical activity or yard work. You get fatter and sleep a lot. Living in Oregon is like hibernating during the winter. You don’t see your neighbors because everyone has holed themselves up just as you have.  Like the groundhog awaking to see his shadow, your neighbors peek out when the sun rises and see how things can changed.

They get surprised about how big your child has gotten, while secretly you ask yourself just how big they’ve gotten during their own hibernation. You secretly  contemplate what you need to do to get back into shape. And get your yard in shape too. Because Oregon grows notoriously wild during the spring and given the large amount of trees that surround our houses, there’s always something to be picked up from the ground. There’s always moss to be cleaned from the roof and lawn. Always grass to be resodded and changed.

So we awake from our slumbers, crawl out of our caves and get to the yard cleanup. Hibernating bears scratching their ways out in the lawn.

I imagine for most that solo dining is either an experience to be relished or one to be feared and forgotten. I’m not the type to make a regular habit of solo dining, and have rarely done so as I’m married and on the rare occasion that we go out to dinner, it’s always with my wife. The solo dining experience I’m referring to of course is not going to McDonalds and grabbing a hamburger to stuff into your maw, it’s the seated dining experience with full service in a room full of couples and groups of friends. Under most circumstances I’d never dare venture out alone to do such a thing but this wasn’t most circumstances. Having found myself in London on business travel, I knew that I wanted to have dining experiences that were not available in the US. I thought of St. John’s restaurant. Where else in my sphere would I be able to eat bone marrow and heart? This year it was rated the 14th best restaurant in the world and was awarded a Michelin star. Under no other circumstances would I be able to go. Whether somebody was going to go with me or not, I had to suck it up and try it out.

First I had to take the London Underground a couple of stops down – cheapest and quickest way to go, provided I was heading in the right direction. Once I got to my stop, I only had the power of the iPhone GPS to guide my way to the destination. Although performance is occasionally sketchy and way-finding leaves a lot to be desired, I really don’t know how I would have made it if not for the device. This strange city where the street names sound more like exotic plants and the words, though in English, come pouring so awkwardly from my mouth.

Despite the GPS, it was still difficult for me to find. On the edges of Spitalfields Market, in a windy cobblestone area which one imagines unspeakable medieval horror taking place. The streets were empty of both tourists and residents, given the late night and weekday setting. I felt like I was almost alone in the 20 minutes walk it took from the tube stop to the restaurant. Passing abbeys and bridges and occasionally walking the wrong direction because of some bad directions, I finally made it to the restaurant.

My first hope was that the bar menu would have the two items that I wanted and I’d be able to sit alone and people wouldn’t give me a second look. Alas they weren’t available in the lonely slab of wood. Sometimes a small thing takes a lot of courage and walking into the bright, small dining room packed with couples and groups was one of those things.

“Table for one please?” “Dining alone?” “Indeed.”

Of course, the most obvious crutch of being able to fiddle with my iPhone was immediately shot down by the proclamation on the menu that there were under no circumstances to be any cellphones used in the dining room. Having no other reading material at hand I was left to my thoughts and my task of quietly observing the people around me, all the while hoping that no one would cast too deep of a glance and wonder what the friendless freak was doing eating at a nice restaurant alone.

I had initially seen St. Johns on an episode of No Reservations or Cooks Tour with Anthony Bourdain. He expressed an enthusiasm for the kind of eating that I was looking forward to: eating traditional, timeless and delicious cuisine that we’ve long forgotten because of very unnecessary squeamishness. After all, if you’re going to kill something, eat the whole thing. So with that I ordered the heart and bone marrow.

Sitting there I tried to keep my mind off the fact that I was here alone with no one to talk to and instead engaged my mind in a number of thought experiments of the kind you’d do if you had no cell, no reading material or stimulus but were otherwise required to sit there quietly. I wondered why both the maître d‘ and my waiter were clearly American. I wondered if my waiter was from the Pacific Northwest, as he had the hollow, grizzled look of a hiker or man that spent months at a time alone or camping in the mountains.

Then I began watching people and trying to figure out who they were and why they were dining there. Some were glaringly obvious. The business men celebrating a sale. Parents and children celebrating an engagement. Businessmen from Asia trying the food. Then there was the the threesome that sat down at the table next to mine. An odd grouping: a couple. A woman well dressed and going as a third wheel to a couple. The man a pudgy bore; the woman an attractive, breast-implanted 36 year old. Of course during the short amount of time that I was waiting for my main entree to arrive, I couldn’t help but overhear the couple get into an outrageously juvenile fight. The man, to his girlfriend and other female friend, started with a nice “ah fuck off both of you.”

Girlfriend. “How dare you speak to me like that!” “I was joking.” “Still, it’s very rude of you and I will not be spoken to like that.” “Well, this again? YOU ALWAYS GET SO OFFENDED!” “You’re always a proper twat.” “Well if that’s how it’s going to be then I’m leaving!”

The man took the napkin off his lap and brusquely gathered his mobile and made his way down to the bar area, after which time the two women began to discuss the argument with the female friend clearly trying to act as he voice of reason and make it all ok. She told them that they were both ridiculous. Then the girlfriend got up and went to the bathroom at which time the man reappeared from whatever corner he was hiding in and proceeded to commiserate with the female friend at the table. The reunion was inevitable but the tension still hung in the air from this supremely juvenile display.

I savored every bite of the marrow, a creamy, butter like substance I scraped from inside the beef bone, sprinkled with salt and bits of parsley salad. Unlike anything I’ve ever tasted, the dish immediately proved to me that one need not be squeamish about the origin of food. It tasted good. Normal even. It wasn’t a bloody mess, in fact a surprising creamy white. I polished it off, savoring each taste.

The ox heart, the other dish which I was so looking forward to, was definitely a surprise. I was imagining that I’d have to saw through a hunk of meat the size of my fist, navigating sinew and gristle. Instead the meat was presented in thin slices from the thickest part of the heart and was simply seasoned with what tasted like butter, garlic, salt and pepper. Not at all chewy, the meat was better described as wonderfully springy. It was fun to eat and in many ways remind me of an extra thin carñe asada cut. Even those least adventurous eaters that I personally know would have no trouble polishing it off. Children would love it.

I was a little sad as I polished off my last bit of heart, knowing that my time was nearly done. I paid my bill and shuffled onto the rain dampened streets, feeling as though I was nearly the only person in London. No crowds. No homeless. A few workers getting ready for the morning market. It was the low coming down from the high.

But a small bit of me was proud that I had managed to make the journey and dine alone. A pure experience with the forgotten bits of an ox.

(Pictures courtesy seriouseats.com)