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Dining alone is supposed to be having a moment, though you wouldn’t know it from Franco’s terrace, where I appear to be the only person without a companion. Around me are convivial little groups of two and three, deep in conversation. I have no company and, as if that weren’t enough, I have also decided to spend the entire lunch without looking at my phone. No scrolling, no messages, not even a quick photograph of my food.

Despite writing about food and wine for a living, I rarely give my own meals the attention they deserve. The frenetic pace of freelance life in London means lunch is usually gobbled down over emails at home or eaten while distractedly chatting when out. The only pause comes when I whip out my phone to take a shot of a plate with the usual apologetic quip: “The phone eats first!” My phone is never far from my hand; my notifications are always on. And yet, surely good food and excellent restaurants deserve better than half our attention?

In an age of endless distractions, solo dining is becoming an act of self-care. Today, it is just me and my food. This is going to be a challenge.

Which is why I have chosen Jermyn Street’s Franco’s, London’s oldest Italian restaurant, for my experiment. Partly because you always receive a warm welcome – Boban, the restaurant manager, greets many of the arriving clientele by name – and partly because the terrace allows for excellent people-watching. It seems as good a place as any to learn how to enjoy my own company.

Boban immediately brings me a glass of their house champagne, and I take in my surroundings rather than doomscroll everyone’s “autumnal feels” reels on Instagram.

Everyone here has amazing hair. The women’s thick locks cascade like waterfalls down their Loro Piana-clad backs, while the men’s are just as lustrous, pushed back with that slight flop of the public-school boy elite. I have rarely studied my fellow diners so closely, but by now I could probably give you a fairly accurate inventory of everyone’s wardrobe. I note I am the only person in trainers and slide my feet further under the table as a stuffed courgette flower arrives.

It is October but the sun is shining, creating dapples of light across the white tablecloth. My Champagne catches the light beside a potted olive tree, and the little plate in front of me is so pretty that my hand automatically goes for my bag. Then I remember my rules. I can’t take a photograph. I am just going to have to remember it. Oddly, as I write this, I can still picture the whole scene in detail, probably far better than if I had posted it on Instagram and immediately forgotten about it.

Without anyone to talk to, my mouth and mind are fully focused on the flavours. I notice the crispness of the batter, the saltiness of the ricotta cheese. Damn, I think. If I had cooked this, this is exactly how I would want somebody to eat it. A dish that would usually have taken me two bites takes me five. I am chewing properly, as we are forever being told to do and almost never do. My eating has slowed right down. My Champagne, however, is going fast.

A bowl of mussels arrives with a glass of Chablis, the shells piled up on a thick slice of bread to soak up the white wine sauce. I use an empty shell to pinch up the chubby little molluscs and suck them in with the salty, chilli, garlicky sauce. I am thinking about how I am going to write about this and realise I have never thought about the colour of a mussel before. These are not quite orange, or beige, or pink. They are the colour of the terracotta buildings of Toulouse, and suddenly lunch feels rather like a holiday. I must have eaten hundreds of mussels in my time, but I have never looked at them quite like this.

It feels a bit like meditation, and I am getting a little smug about how much I am enjoying my meal more than anyone else here. My first instinct is to message my friend Anna to boast of my newfound mindfulness. My second is to message my partner to tell him this is now my favourite restaurant in London. I hadn’t realised quite how often I send people every passing thought, simply because my phone is there in my hand. For once, these thoughts will have to wait until I see them in person.

I look around and realise that almost no one else is drinking at lunch. It is all sparkling water and I wonder when boozy lunches stopped happening. Then an American woman on a date behind me cries, “I’m a psychic! And I know we’re meant to be together, here, right now!” I feel reassured that at least one other table appears to be embracing the spirit of a long lunch.

Other people’s conversations float around me. The shirtmaker Emma Willis is at the next table talking business with the men with the great hair. A trio arrive, the women entirely clad in Gucci, from sunglasses and bags to red-striped trousers and shoes. The man has matched his red gilet to his socks. They order still wine as they have “had a lot of fizz today already”. It is 3.15pm. A couple more solo diners have arrived, and the wine is beginning to flow.

When my pasta arrives, it is all thick ribbons of al dente tagliatelle coated in butter, topped with mushrooms and generous, scallop-edged slivers of truffle. I feel a slight pang as the parmesan is grated over it – ordinarily, I would have filmed that. But the feeling passes. The sommelier, Rae, keeps flitting by for a quick chat, and between her friendly banter and the food I haven’t felt a lack of company at all. If anyone has noticed I am by myself, I imagine they are wondering who the cool, enigmatic woman is confidently dining by herself. This is almost certainly wishful thinking, but I am enjoying myself too much to care.

By the time I have finished, Emma Willis has left and the two gentlemen ask if I would like to join them. Having managed more than two hours in my own company, I decide I have earned a conversation. They have noticed my leather notebook and tell me about their luxury leather goods brand Balfour Cairns. Rae tops us all up with the impeccable Isole e Olena Chardonnay, and it turns out we have mutual friends. They ask if I would join them for rooftop drinks, but I have to go. As I depart, two men sitting alone look up and smile; one gestures to the empty seat at his table.

Have I found the cure for the loneliness epidemic? Is this the new (old) way for people to meet in real life? Put down those dating apps and book a table for one, as apparently nothing makes you more attractive as a dining companion than being happy in your own company.

As I leave the warm embrace of Franco’s, I realise I have appreciated this meal more than almost any I can remember. Not because it was the fanciest lunch I’ve ever had – although the Champagne and truffle certainly helped – but because, for once, I was properly there for it. I can remember every course, more than a few outfits and a surprising amount of excellent hair.

For someone who spends so much time writing about eating and drinking, it has been a useful reminder to enjoy the business of doing both. I shall be pencilling in a few more lunches for one because the ultimate luxury isn’t Michelin-starred dining; it’s having the time to give the present my uninterrupted attention.

Franco’s can be found at 61 Jermyn Street, St James’s, London SW1Y 6LX. For more information, visit their website.

Libby Brodie is a freelance wine writer, founder of Bacchus & Brodie Wine Consultancy and co-host of ‘The Inner Table: The Art of Living Well’ podcast. She was recently named in the Top 100 Most Influential in Drinks list by Drinks Retailing. Her Instagram handle is @libbybrodie.

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