The first time I made risotto was for my first college boyfriend Alejandro1. It was his birthday, and as a work-study student, I couldn’t afford to take him out to a nice restaurant, so I decided to cook a three-course dinner to surprise him. I purposely chose risotto to be the entree exactly because most people know it’s a dish that takes a long time with constant stirring and careful monitoring—I wanted to demonstrate how much I loved him. After spending hours in the kitchen, I set the table and waited for his reaction excitedly.
Nothing. Halfway through the meal, Alejandro still barely said a word and I finally had to ask, “Is something wrong?” He sighed and answered, “You should have asked me what I wanted to eat for my birthday.”
I was so scarred that I didn’t make risotto again for a whole decade. But I continued to cook for men who didn’t appreciate it.
There was Xander, who was hard to read so I was constantly trying to impress him. For a double date with his friends, I volunteered to cook the four of us dinner at my place. Being Type A and craving preemptive brownie points, I informed them of the menu beforehand: a classic steak dinner because they were big meat eaters. The hiccup was that since I rarely eat steak myself, I was in for a rude awakening as the staff ran me up at the butcher shop: two hundred dollars for four pieces of organic grass-fed rib eye steak. I was in my mid-twenties at the time, and that amount was astronomical to me. I can still remember how hot my face got, but I still bought the steaks since I already told everyone the menu.
Dinner turned out delicious. I also made potatoes and a vegetable side dish. They all loved the steaks, complimenting the quality and flavors of the meat. After the friends left, I was hoping Xander would ask me how long it took me to get all the ingredients and cook everything, or at least thank me for treating his friends so well. Then I could gingerly bring up the costs for us to split. But besides saying things like “this is good” while eating, he didn’t say anything specifically to thank me. And no, he never did anything similar for my friends. I’m still salty about it to this day.
To be fair, not everyone I dated had bad table side manners. I remembered when I baked buttermilk scones with chocolate chips sprinkled in for Phillip, I was lovingly picking out the ones whose shapes turned out the prettiest for him. The rest were the ugly ducklings for myself and my roommates. He didn’t get the chance to eat them right away, so a few days later when I ran into his friends, they gushed about how delicious my scones were. I was flattered but texted him, “The scones were just for you,” and he replied “Oops! :P They were so good though, I had to share.”
On Thanksgiving, Phillip invited me to his parents’ house for dinner. I cannot recall what we ate for the actual meal, but I’ll forever remember how Phillip baked three different pies from scratch. Kneading the dough with his bare hands and rolling pin. When dessert time finally arrived and he was serving everyone, he asked me which pie I would like. All I could answer with was eager puppy eyes. He laughed and said, “I’ll give you a small slice of each so you can try them all,” and that remains one of the most romantic things I’ve ever experienced in my whole life.
Perhaps it’s not solely my own fault for opening up my cookbooks at the first sign of attraction. Besides centuries of patriarchy, I remembered reading about the “Engagement Chicken” recipe as a young impressionable woman just starting to dip her toes into dating. Then every few years ever since, new alleged stories of its success would pop up almost like an urban myth.
We gobble up romantic gastronomic stories like these as if they prove the trite saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” to be true. It’s sexist and not the complete truth: I too find the act of someone cooking for me to be totally swoon-worthy. Why do only men get to be wooed with food? I want to receive love by way of cooking just as much as I want to give love by cooking for others.
After feeling like several dudes took advantage of my culinary skills, I set out to do the opposite of what I usually do when I met my current partner.
During our early dates, I carefully avoided mentioning anything about enjoying trying new recipes or learning how to cook as a middle schooler, even when dining at restaurants or getting takeout. He cooked for me a handful of times—pasta and breakfast, I think—before I finally offered to return the favor but only with one toe in the water. I ordered one of those Blue Apron meal prep kits, and suggested we do it together. Coincidentally, that evening I had to finish an urgent work task, so he actually did most of the cooking.
“I thought you didn’t know how to cook at all,” is my boyfriend’s direct quote after we officially became a couple. It may seem like I played a trick on him, but I like to think of it as surprising him with how great I am as he got to know me better. Trust me when I say that this man has been fed well ever since. He keeps a running tab of his favorites: Taiwanese chicken leg bento, Thai fried rice with real crab, linguine with clams and basil, buttermilk roast chicken, pork chops with mustard and cumin, and sous vide duck confit with duck fat roasted potatoes are some that have made it into the hall of fame. I loved hearing him say “Okay this has to be in the top five best things you’ve ever made,” dozens of times the first two years we dated, but my favorite part about cooking for him is that in between moans of satisfaction, he would ask me questions like how did you prepare this and which spices and herbs did you use.
I give you the same advice I wish I could’ve given you myself: when you go all out and cook for a new lover, watch out for these following signs that will provide clues on what kind of partner they will be in the long run. Do they pitch in? Do they clean up or bring a bottle of wine or dessert? Do they provide verbal affirmation like complimenting me or thanking me? Do they offer to be the cook or treat me to a restaurant for our next date? And if the food turns out just OK or if I mess up something in the kitchen, do they still show appreciation or do they become critical and judgmental?
Cooking for someone can feel so magical because you’re opening up a part of yourself, creating something, and sharing it with them. It’s an incredibly vulnerable and intimate act, so it can feel extremely disappointing and hurtful when the recipient takes it for granted. Of course, all’s fair in love and war. But it’s important to protect yourself as well.
Wishing you good luck in love and cooking,
Chin
Names have been changed for privacy.