The Joys and Trials of Dating a Chef

Rewind to our third date, a year and a half ago. Micky invited me to his apartment in Queens to make dinner. I brought the wine and DJ’ed his stereo, and asked if I could help cook.

“No,” he said, “I got it,” his laser focus directed at the cutting board.

I remember the agnolotti he made for us—neat rows of dough filled with sweet San Marzanos. I watched him as he pinched the eggy pasta off into identical satchels, twisting the ends.

He saw I was interested. “Do you want to make some?”

“Definitely!” But I didn’t have a practiced hand. My pasta envelopes were lumpy and uneven. I thought they were sort of charming in their messiness. Rustic. He threw my batch into the trash.

He wasn’t mean about it or anything. We were falling in love, and it was a romantic and delicious night. But for a second, I mourned for my inferior, banished little agnolotti.