The best time to go out to eat is when you’re sad
In my 20s, from the depths of some now-forgotten sadness, I found myself listlessly wandering through downtown San Francisco with no destination in particular. I was a law firm employee with dreams of creative writing. I had an embarrassing proclivity for spending time in coffee shops, bars, and restaurants, trying to figure out how to push words together, journaling like it was my side hustle. You see, in my heartache, the last thing I wanted was to sit with my intrusive thoughts. What I wanted was to be alone amongst people, maybe sip a cocktail, and take in the bustle of a restaurant as a distraction.
Call it a homing beacon of sorts, but I naturally gravitate towards the bay when I’m sad for some reason. (I’m convinced crying alone while staring out at the water is the Bay Area equivalent of crying on the New York subway alone. Fight me.) And so it was that I found myself at the Ferry Building in spring 20mumblemumble, taking up space at the corner of the bar at the Slanted Door, probably looking miserable. The crowds helped, as did the bartender who sized me up and began talking to me about the drinks, how different cocktails were made, and the nuances of different liquors they used in each concoction. Are you ordering food? he asked me, maybe after two, too-quick cocktails. No, I replied. Having been to Slanted Door on just one or two occasions before that, and always with a group, I knew there was no way I could handle a group-sized amount of food, solo.
We can split some side dishes for you, he filled in helpfully.
Even years later, I can clearly recall how Slanted Door felt like a lifeline — a place where, even when I was feeling down, a bite of food and a friendly stranger could remind me that maybe life isn’t so terrible. I remember one dish they split for me was this corn and mushroom number, and of all the dinners I’ve had since then, it’s one of the bites I remember most.
In the depths of a different kind of sadness last summer, I was struck by how I no longer had my north star of third places — my secret place I go to when life gets overwhelming. When restaurants become your work, everywhere is work, and when I wanted to go somewhere for me, I felt like I was at a loss to come up with a just-for-me place. It felt even harder to process the pain, as even the Slanted Door was gone from its perch at the Ferry Building (Arquet had yet to open at that point), and the charming and irreplaceable Charles Phan had passed months earlier.
“Where do you eat when you’re sad?” I asked my followers on Instagram.
In the responses, I got lots of wisdom from once-heartbroken folks. “Nothing beats a roti and nasi lemak at Banana Island in DC,” read one message. “Big pile of pad Thai (or curry noodles) from Toomie’s in Alameda,” wrote a friend. “Either Beit Rima or everything at the Sunday market in East Oakland,” read another message. Others replied with dishes they like to make when sadness strikes. Pastina, was one response. Made with bone broth and “an unhealthy amount” of Romano cheese, salt, and cracked pepper.
There’s plenty to be sad about these days. I probably don’t even have to list any of those reasons at all; I’m sure you’ll all be able to come up with something. But there’s something to be said about raging against the dying of the light (or the machine).
My prescription, for me and for you, is to go out.
Get out of bed, stop doomscrolling, put on your outside clothes, and leave your home. My love of dining solo is a hill I will die on, and an important lesson of being okay to exist on your own, while also learning the art of shooting the shit with strangers. (Hell, we’ve even got a map for solo diners and an ironically timed Ask Eater column about it.) But perhaps it’s also time to catch up with a friend you’ve been neglecting, over cutty bangs in the park or a punk show at a dim sum restaurant. Or, maybe we should all listen to our wise columnist Garrett Schlichte, who has turned San Francisco from a city to a home, given tips on how to become a regular, and who loves the romantic nature of falling in love with an entire neighborhood.
There are places all around us to recenter yourself and to remind yourself that things aren’t always bad, if only for an evening. And if those feelings continue to persist, take it from me: There’s always therapy. ✦
february 11, 2026