When
he found one that seemed like a possibility, he would conduct a number of tests. First he’d sit on it; if it proved to be
acceptable for this basic utility, he would lie down on it to confirm that it was of a suitable length. How the arms cradled
his head was a crucial factor for maximum reading and television-viewing pleasure. If the prospective sofa passed all those
tests, I would be beckoned to lie down next to him to see how well we fit on it together. I went along with this exercise,
feigning complicity, but I didn’t like what it represented. I pictured our lives merging, along with our furniture; Ethan
was working on a “separate but equal” scenario. I spent a lot of time on my therapist’s couch talking about Ethan’s sofa shopping.
I worried, too, whenever he asked me how to make one of his favorite dishes. What would he need me for if he had my sofa and
my recipe for tomato sauce? But Ethan never bought a sofa, and he never learned to cook, at least not while he was with me.
I came so far with my own cooking while I was with Ethan that I began to prefer it to going out for meals 99 percent of the time. Dining
in restaurants is disappointing more often than not, I have learned. Even in the most celebrated restaurants—
especially
in the most celebrated restaurants. It’s impossible for anything to live up to expectations set so high. There’s chemistry
involved in making a magical night out. Where you are sitting, your mood and that of your date, your rapport with the server,
all these elements are as important as the food, and rarely do they all combine in harmony. Still, when you hit it, it’s so
superb that it’s worth taking the chance and going out every so often. In any case, even this cook needs a break every once
in a while.
Asian food is one cuisine worth leaving the house for because it’s sensational, and as much as I love to cook, you are never
going to find me rolling up raw fish in rice and seaweed or doing much with fish sauce or sesame oil. I stick to Western themes
in my cooking. Ethan’s favorite food, besides anything that I made, was sushi. Back in the late nineties when we were dating,
Nobu was
the
place for Japanese food, but if you weren’t Robert De Niro or Heidi Klum, good luck getting a table at dinner. I had been
there for lunch on my expense account a couple of times and always wanted to take Ethan because I knew he would love it. One
evening when we weren’t getting anywhere with one of our what-to-have-for-dinner conversations, we got it into our heads to
try our luck there. Ethan and I walked in with no reservation, approached the model-look-alike maître d’ at the podium, and
boldly asked if there was a table available. She hesitated a moment, looked into her computer, and announced a sudden cancellation.
We ordered the omakase—a multicourse meal of dishes chosen by the chef—and a bottle of crisp sauvignon blanc. As each delicacy
arrived before us—black miso cod or a piece of the freshest toro—Ethan was overcome with emotions emitted in fits of uncontrollable
laughter. I didn’t know whether to be concerned or pleased (I
was
buying). I ended up feeling a little jealous of those fish: I was never treated to an outburst akin to the one the uni at
Nobu received. I hoped that Ethan’s feelings for me were as deep as the sea our dinner came from, but I wasn’t convinced.
Ethan was with me for the present, but I wasn’t so clear about our future. I wanted us to be married, but conversations on that subject, which
I began to broach after about a year, were not encouraging. I first confronted him on a day when I learned of fabulous successes
from two of my best friends. Ginia had just been hired by
The New York Times,
and Jen Warren had gotten engaged. I, on the other hand, was still working in a publicity job that I could do with my hands
tied behind my back and dating a guy with a record of long
he found one that seemed like a possibility, he would conduct a number of tests. First he’d sit on it; if it proved to be
acceptable for this basic utility, he would lie down on it to confirm that it was of a suitable length. How the arms cradled
his head was a crucial factor for maximum reading and television-viewing pleasure. If the prospective sofa passed all those
tests, I would be beckoned to lie down next to him to see how well we fit on it together. I went along with this exercise,
feigning complicity, but I didn’t like what it represented. I pictured our lives merging, along with our furniture; Ethan
was working on a “separate but equal” scenario. I spent a lot of time on my therapist’s couch talking about Ethan’s sofa shopping.
I worried, too, whenever he asked me how to make one of his favorite dishes. What would he need me for if he had my sofa and
my recipe for tomato sauce? But Ethan never bought a sofa, and he never learned to cook, at least not while he was with me.
I came so far with my own cooking while I was with Ethan that I began to prefer it to going out for meals 99 percent of the time. Dining
in restaurants is disappointing more often than not, I have learned. Even in the most celebrated restaurants—
especially
in the most celebrated restaurants. It’s impossible for anything to live up to expectations set so high. There’s chemistry
involved in making a magical night out. Where you are sitting, your mood and that of your date, your rapport with the server,
all these elements are as important as the food, and rarely do they all combine in harmony. Still, when you hit it, it’s so
superb that it’s worth taking the chance and going out every so often. In any case, even this cook needs a break every once
in a while.
Asian food is one cuisine worth leaving the house for because it’s sensational, and as much as I love to cook, you are never
going to find me rolling up raw fish in rice and seaweed or doing much with fish sauce or sesame oil. I stick to Western themes
in my cooking. Ethan’s favorite food, besides anything that I made, was sushi. Back in the late nineties when we were dating,
Nobu was
the
place for Japanese food, but if you weren’t Robert De Niro or Heidi Klum, good luck getting a table at dinner. I had been
there for lunch on my expense account a couple of times and always wanted to take Ethan because I knew he would love it. One
evening when we weren’t getting anywhere with one of our what-to-have-for-dinner conversations, we got it into our heads to
try our luck there. Ethan and I walked in with no reservation, approached the model-look-alike maître d’ at the podium, and
boldly asked if there was a table available. She hesitated a moment, looked into her computer, and announced a sudden cancellation.
We ordered the omakase—a multicourse meal of dishes chosen by the chef—and a bottle of crisp sauvignon blanc. As each delicacy
arrived before us—black miso cod or a piece of the freshest toro—Ethan was overcome with emotions emitted in fits of uncontrollable
laughter. I didn’t know whether to be concerned or pleased (I
was
buying). I ended up feeling a little jealous of those fish: I was never treated to an outburst akin to the one the uni at
Nobu received. I hoped that Ethan’s feelings for me were as deep as the sea our dinner came from, but I wasn’t convinced.
Ethan was with me for the present, but I wasn’t so clear about our future. I wanted us to be married, but conversations on that subject, which
I began to broach after about a year, were not encouraging. I first confronted him on a day when I learned of fabulous successes
from two of my best friends. Ginia had just been hired by
The New York Times,
and Jen Warren had gotten engaged. I, on the other hand, was still working in a publicity job that I could do with my hands
tied behind my back and dating a guy with a record of long
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