That’s the truth no matter how hard up for cash you are or how cheap you intend to be on your next date. Because if you are not forking it out on the purely financial side you are going to be paying for it in sweat equity.
What does that mean? That means more imaginative work. That means planning. That means giving women what they most want from us—empathy, imagination, dashing seize-the-moment-impetuousness and, of course, emotional security.
But here is a secret, especially when your wallet is tight and you can’t face yet another hundred-something dollar meal without a guarantee of a return on your investment: Ask her to cook with you.
Don’t ask her by text or email. There is no substitute for the human voice. At the very least, call her. Another hint? Lower the pitch of your voice. I once took a dog training course and the trainer told me right off the bat that if you pitch your voice too high and you repeat your commands too often, the dog thinks you are just another yapping puppy. But if you pitch your voice low, and your commands are short and simple, the dog is more likely to obey. Get the picture?
So use your good phone voice or best of all, be brave and ask her in person. It’s more charming that way—it’s called old fashioned analog dating. Also, you can judge her body language: Is there a widening of the eyes accompanied by a coquettish laugh? Or perhaps a guarded downturn of the lips and a sidelong equivocal smile? Or does she recoil in horror and fear? (i.e. she can’t cook.)
Now that you have asked and you have received your response (hopefully number one or number two) you have to move decisively to the next phase: What food are the two of you going to cook together?
It’s flattering if you suggest a food reflective of her background—whatever that may be—Irish or Yugoslavian or Creole. It’s also helpful to suggest a food that has connotations of generational lineage. This is not cynical. It should come as a relief to her (empathy boys, remember empathy). This way she doesn’t feel the pressure of trying to make nouvelle cuisine or marinate ceviche for three days. Be open to what she suggests as a response—she might even make meatloaf.
We have now come to the run-up to the date. Remember: Women are different from us. The anticipation of the date—i.e. the planning of the clothes; the preparations of the body (including costly lotions and groomings too frightening to think about) and, most importantly, the pondering of various romantic scenarios—is extremely important. Women need to feel both physically and emotionally prepped for a date.
While she is concentrating on that, you have to demonstrate your willingness to help organize the dinner. This shows that you are not a lazy good-for-nothing-layabout who expects her to do all the work.
Ask her what ingredients you can pick up. Does she need any special equipment—juicer, garlic press, blender? (If you don’t have any of those things, remember that you’re a cheap bastard and don’t go out and buy anything. Just admit that you don’t have the latest Henkels knife—that all that you have is one of those flimsy white plastic ones that comes with a napkin in a cellophane bag—and she will take pity on you, think it’s endearing, and bring her own.)
This phase of planning the dinner is crucial. Yes, boys, this is part of the date. You might think that talking about the food and the implements that are needed is purely practical. But you would be wrong. It’s called co-operative engagement, which is a form of intimacy for that other species called women. If it helps, just think of it as conversational foreplay.
And now I’m going to leave these introductory remarks in order to tell you the story of Cooking Date #1—a rocking woman of Mexican descent (not Salma Hayek) whom I met unexpectedly while picking up my 6 year-old from school. (Yes I am, unfortunately, newly divorced.)
PROLOGUE
We had gone out once previously for what I had hoped would be an inexpensive but classy first date—drinks (I had clearly said drinks) at an upscale restaurant in New York City’s Tribeca neighborhood. She had ordered a 2009 Grüner Veltliner ($12 a glass) and I’d started off with a glass of 2008 Pinot Noir from the Sonoma Coast ($15). We were talking up a storm. I ordered another round. Suddenly it was 9:30 and we were both starving so we nibbled on minimal bar food—arugula and frisée salad with red radish, faro picillo and ricotta salata for her ($20) baked Hummock Island oysters with sea salt and bacon powder for me ($16). We were really getting along, so more drinks. And there it was—in one easy leap we had broken the one hundred dollar barrier. And we hadn’t even eaten a real meal.
I paid the check. My credit card groaned. We smooched a little in the taxi ($18 including tip). When I got home I inhaled a bowl of cereal. Then I dined on sardines, bread and mesclun greens for a week in order to save money. And I decided that the next date was going to be different.
CURTAIN RISES
ACT ONE: SCENE ONE
I make the approach as outlined above, selecting the “in person” option. This was met with a burst of laughter and an “I’m game for that” smile. I’m in business.
HER: What kind of Mexican food do you really, really love?
ME: Mole? (I was momentarily stumped. I couldn’t just say tacos or enchiladas).
HER: Maybe I can make green mole? (She seems genuinely excited by the idea). I’ve never made that before. What else do you like?
ME: Gambas?
HER: We could do that as a starter (She looks a little disappointed—too easy?). Or we could make hand-rolled tortillas? That would take many hours. Should I get a babysitter who can stay past midnight?
ME: Definitely.
Following that exchange, I offer to buy some tequila.
HER: I like Don Julio, the smoky one called anejo.
ME: OK.
HER: (Demurely) Or we could just drink white wine?
ME: White wine with Mexican food? You’ve gotta be kidding. (I say this with as much of a manly growl as I can muster.
But internally I’m thinking—what work do I have to do the next day? I’m going to be so totally hung over.)
SCENE TWO
I enter the local liquor store. I’m greeted by a kindly clerk. I tell him that I would like a bottle of Don Julio tequila—the smoky one. He looks me over and pulls a squat brown bottle off the shelf. I heft it in my hands and step towards the register. He tells me it costs $60. I spin on my heels and hand it back to him. Does he have another, less expensive one? He takes down a tall, slender bottle. This tequila is transparent, like water. It costs $30. I buy it. I walk out of the store. I walk five city blocks. I am troubled. I am thinking—this is going to send the wrong signal: that I’m unreliable; that I don’t listen; that I don’t follow through on what she asked of me.
I turn around and return to the store. I explain the situation. The clerk assures me that the clear tequila is just as good as the “smoky” tequila—the smoky one all is about marketing and hype. I stick to my guns. He shrugs. “I was just trying to help you save some money, bud.”
SCENE THREE
I call her.
ME: We didn’t set a time for dinner. What works best for you? Do you need help schlepping the stuff over to my place? (Co-operative engagement.)
HER: You’re sweet to offer. How about I come over at 8:00-8:15. I’m at the supermarket now. Don’t imagine you have a mortar and pestle?
ME: I do have a mortar and pestle if you can believe it.
HER: Wow! I’m impressed.
FIVE MINUTES LATER SHE SENDS A TEXT.
HER: I’m going to grind habañero chili with your mortar and pestle. Is that ok?
ME: You can grind whatever you wish with my mortar (and pestle)...
HER TEXT: Oh my goodness.
ACT TWO: SCENE ONE
SHE ARRIVES WITH TWO BURSTING BAGS OF GROCERIES. SHE STARTS UNPACKING.
HER: Tonight we’re going to have a series of quesadillas made with soft flour and corn tortillas, a range of combinations using Queso Oaxaca, flank steak, Poblano chilis, mushrooms and chorizo. We’re also making classic Mexico City guacamole. And my grandmother’s special salsa.
ME: Sounds good.
HER: While we cook, we are going to sip the tequila that you hopefully bought and follow it with a chaser called Sangrita, which is usually made with the juice of Seville oranges but since they didn’t have any at the supermarket we’re going to use blood orange juice instead.
SHE STARTS MAKING THE SANGRITA. I CONTINUE TO UNLOAD THE GROCERIES.
HER: I think this is perfect. But you taste it and tell me. It’s going to be a very new taste for you...Just let it sink in.
ME: That’s fantastic.
HER: You feel the burn?
ME: I feel the burn.
HER: You are going to die when you have this with tequila.
ME: The leading edge is orange...
HER: (sultry voice). Yeah, a deep red orange.
I TAKE OUT THE BOTTLE OF TEQUILA AND POUR THE FIRST SHOT.
HER: I just love this tequila! It’s beautiful: so smoky and lush. It’s the only one I can drink. It’s perfect! And I love the fact that you got the right one.
ME: (interior thought: That was just worth the extra thirty bucks).
HER: Nice shirt, by the way.
ME: Thank you.
HER: You’re lucky that you have good taste because that’s, like, a non-negotiable thing. Do you have a dish towel?
ME: Taste is a non-negotiable thing? Or the dish towel?
HER: Close tie. Taste for sure. Don’t you find that with most women? That most women want a man with style?
SCENE TWO
WE ARE SIPPING TEQUILA FOLLOWED BY THE SANGRITA. SHE IS ROASTING POBLANO CHILIS ON A SPECIAL GRILL CALLED A COMAL. I AM PREPARING THE AVOCADOS FOR THE GAUCAMOLE.
HER: My Grandmother made salsa practically everyday. She was Costa Rican and Spanish but grew up in Mexico City. She was an only child and she became this stunning glamour girl—the kind of woman you see in old Latin films: gorgeous big brown wavy hair and an incredible figure. I was her favorite and she taught me how to make fantastic salsa. It has a lot of spice. This is what she did to me—I look for spice in everything—in my turkey sandwiches, in my eggs...everything.
ME: Is this enough avocado? Should I add salt?
HER: I like my food pungent, not salty per se, but potent. I do not tolerate bland guacamole or bland salsa. That’s a cardinal rule. In fact, I don’t tolerate anything bland in my life.
ME: (Gulp.)
SCENE THREE
HER: Tell me, why on earth do you have a mortar and pestle but, like, one frying pan and a colander?
ME: I actually have two mortar and pestles.
HER: (Laughs.) Why?
ME: Rosemary, olive oil and garlic—I put it on just about everything.
HER: And the other one?
ME: It’s more classic.
HER: Bigger?
ME: Not really, just standard issue. I got it when I was between marriages.
HER: Between marriages?
ME: Yeah, the interregnum.
HER: The interregnum?
ME: Yeah, the interregnum. It means between Kings. But I was between Queens—between wife number one and wife number two.
(Long pause).
HER: You know, this grenadine—it’s fantastic.
ACT THREE: SCENE ONE
MORE TEQUILA. POBLANO CHILIS HAVE COME OFF THE GRILL AND ARE NOW BEING SWEATED IN A PLASTIC BAG. I AM RIPPING CILANTRO INTO SMALL PIECES TO ADD TO THE GUACAMOLE.
HER: OK Mr. Writer Guy. Ask me some more questions.
ME: (Lamely.) So why did you choose this food?
HER: You asked me what my favorite Mexican meal would be. And it’s street food. At first I was going to do something more complex but I thought we don’t want to work that hard tonight. Mole would have taken three hours. Chili relleños would have been a little too specific. You really have to love chilies. Hopefully I’ll make you a lover tonight after this.
(Pause.)
HER: I mean, smell my hand. It smells subtle. This is what happens when you roast habañero peppers when making salsa—you are mellowing and enriching the flavor. Oh my god! I forgot an onion.
ME: I might have one. (Sound of refrigerator door opening.) I HOLD AN ONION TRIUMPANTLY ALOFT.
HER: All right baby! You’ve been coming through. First the tequila, then the mortar and pestle and now the onion! You are always coming through—not like most men.
ME: (Smug smile.)
HER: I love the fact that you don’t want to relive your youth. That’s way sexier to a girl, at least to this girl (pause). Do you care if you are sexy in my opinion?
ME: I might have an interest.
SCENE TWO
SHE LUNGES. A PASSIONATE KISS.
SCENE THREE
A FEW HOURS LATER.
HER: It was all about the salsa. My grandmother knew.
ME: I think it was all about the tequila.
CURTAIN
POSTSCRIPT
In the end this worked to be an inexpensive but highly satisfactory date. Total outlay: $60 for tequila and 50 cents for one onion.
But let’s be clear: This is a high-risk form of dating. A meal at a restaurant is far less complicated—it’s a neutral public space with mutually understood rituals and rules.
Cooking together is an entirely different matter. It’s laced with all kinds of undercurrents—not the least being that you are alone together in a domestic and private space. And with a bedroom nearby.
But if the stakes are high, so are the rewards. If you are a great cook (i.e. one of those guys who has mastered cooking like your buddies have mastered rock climbing) you get to show off. If you are a bumbling and beginning cook, you get points for a willingness to reveal your vulnerability.
Women’s magazines run a constant stream of articles about what women want from men. But what do men want from women? Sex obviously. But we’re not total Neanderthals. Cooking together gives us an opportunity to judge you as well: Are you supportive without being crushingly critical (“That’s a novel idea—dropping an entire onion into the guacamole—but it might be a good idea to peel it first.”) Are you overly controlling or demanding (“Let me chop that onion—just get me some more ice for my drink.”) Do you have a sense of humor? Are you willing to improvise? Are you patient?
Cooking together cuts straight to the chase: Are the two of you able to successfully collaborate to make a meal? And what does that experience feel like? Is it full of stress and anxiety, or is it deadly serious, or is it full of high jinx and fun? The proof, as the British like to say, is in the pudding.
THE MEAL
Tequila
It’s important to use a sipping tequila, best being a smoky amber colored aged tequila. Don Julio Anjeo was used in this instance.
Chaser of Sangrita
Blood orange juice (subbing for Seville OJ)
Cayenne pepper (subbing for Chile Piquin)
Grenadine to taste
Juice of 2 limes
Salt
Classic Perfect Mexican Guacamole
6 ripe avocados
1 large ripe vine tomato
1/2 red onion
2 limes
1 large handful of cilantro
1 jalapeño pepper
Artisan salt—no chemicals!
Mash avocados slightly in a large bowl. Dice tomato medium fine, dice onion finely, chop cilantro, dice jalapeño finely. Add all ingredients to avocado and combine without stirring too much-you want it to be chunky. Use a lemon squeezer to fully squeeze juice from the limes into the mix.
Place a bunch of cilantro on top with a jalapeño to finish.
Habañero Salsa
2 medium Habañero peppers
Two large ripe vine tomatoes
One small red onion
One head garlic
Handful cilantro
Roast the peppers and tomatoes on a comal or grill. Once the skins are slightly burnt peel and place tomatoes and peppers in a molcajete (mortar and pestle made of rough stone) to mash into a purée. Add finely chopped cilantro. Add juice of one lime.
Add salt to taste.
Queso Oaxaca, Poblano Chile and Mushroom Quesadillas
Roast fresh poblano chiles on a comal or grill until skins are burnt on all sides, then sweat them in a sealed plastic bag for twenty minutes. Peel the chilies and slice into strips. Roast cremini mushrooms on grill and slice.
Put the flour tortilla on the grill, place a handful of Queso Oaxaca (we used Albanian string cheese) onto the tortilla for a few moments, throw peppers and mushrooms on top and fold tortilla in half. Flip once to grill the other side.
Top with salsa and guacamole.
The recipes in this story have not been tested in the Gourmet kitchens.
Adam Harrison Levy is a writer and documentary filmmaker. He lives in New York.