When we meet friends for dinner who are in our general age cohort — let’s call it the Gen X/boomer cusp — the meal usually begins with a question. “Are we sharing?” We’re old enough to remember a time when everyone ordered their own appetizer and entree, and if bites of someone else’s food were requested they traveled around the table on butter plates. Some of us still long for those days, while others have adjusted to the new reality. 

Today, most independent restaurant meals begin with those seven syllables we know so well: “Our food is meant to be shared.” (Two iambs and an anapest, like the start of a song.) Kitchens prefer this format because they can send dishes to the table as soon as they’re ready, so hot food stays hot and cold food cold. Because of the relative prep times of the items, the shared meal will have an organic progression, from salads and crudo served cold, to pastas and sautés that come together quickly in the pan, to heartier roasts and grilled meats that require more time and TLC. 

I was personally an early adopter of sharing because I always enjoy the chance to experience more dishes. Yet it makes for awkward moments that detract from the enjoyment of the meal, like when there are no serving utensils. You can ask for a spoon, but you can’t unserve food. One of the best meals I’ve had recently was at Lucian Books and Wine in Atlanta, where the cooking was grounded in classical French technique and had finesse to burn. “You should order two to three dishes per person and plan to share,” the server said. After several great small plates (including a merlot cabbage that will haunt my dreams), the three of us received our two “main” dishes at once — tilefish with blue crab, melted leeks, and sauce américaine, and then roast duck over creamed collard greens with foie gras in a thin jus. Both came plated as if they were individual entrees, and yet we had to share them by spooning up blops and pieces. This service style disrespected the integrity of the flavors, which kind of bled into weirdo surf and turf on the small salad plates we ate from. I wish we had been encouraged to not share. 

At some restaurants you get the sharing spiel and then the portions feel off. I found that to be the case at Il Carciofo, Joe Flamm’s new West Loop spot specializing in housemade pasta. Four of us passed around a sublime bowl of rigatoni alla amatriciana, and I found myself wondering if it would be piggy to help myself to six tubes instead of five. I felt like this obviated the pleasure of eating pasta, which is all about that moment when you’re inhaling it like oxygen. It works as a family platter or as an individual portion, but not as a share plate. 

Finally, there are restaurants today that have a menu that pretty much looks like appetizers and entrees but give you no option but to share. Such was our experience at Gavroche, the sweet little bistro that opened on Wells Street in Old Town a few months ago. We dined with a Belgian friend who had just arrived from Europe where the two-course model holds tight. We looked at the menu — divided into “Amuse Bouche” and “Principals” — and made our choices before the server came and gave us the share spiel. We told her we wanted to order our own plates, thanks. Her response? “That’s not possible. The food is served when it’s ready.” (In my mind, Nancy Sinatra was singing, “These plates are made for sharing, and that’s just what they’ll do…”) 

We could not persuade her otherwise. So our guest and I got our cold appetizers in a flash and let them sit for 15 minutes until my wife’s food arrived, except it was her main course chicken dish. Then a few minutes later her mussels appetizer arrived, followed by our friend’s turbot, followed by my own turbot at least 10 minutes after his. The food was decent enough but the whole experience was too stressful for a place charging $36 for an entree. 

Maybe that’s why I like eating alone at the bar so much. I can order a couple of dishes and the food comes out in that appetite-friendly sequence that we used to call dinner.