The Chef's Kiss

When I met Gord, I thought the dating gods had finally thrown me a bone — or at least a very tender sous-vide filet. He was a real chef, not just one of those "I make a mean grilled cheese" types. Actual whites, actual restaurant, actual ability to pronounce “mirepoix” without spraining his tongue. And he was tall, dark and the spitting image of Alex Rodriguez. Our first two dates? Glorious. Witty banter, delicious food, eye contact that lingered just a beat too long. I was smitten. And probably slightly protein-deficient from eating only appetizers to seem dainty.

So by our third date, I wanted to turn the tables — literally. I decided I’d cook for him. Because surely, surely no one cooks for a chef, right? I imagined his face lighting up as he tasted my lovingly-prepared seafood soup, eyes brimming with gratitude. I envisioned compliments like “no one’s ever done this for me,” followed by him proposing in a flurry of crustacean-scented passion.

What actually happened was... not that.

It was a snowy February day — the kind that makes you feel like a human marshmallow. I hit the grocery store early, picking out the freshest seafood I could find. Shrimp with the heads still on. Mussels. Clams. Things that smell like low tide but make magic in a bowl. I was dedicated. I even bought crusty artisanal bread and consulted Gord about wine pairings during the day, specifically a light, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc — not at all over-texting, just a healthy, well-researched sommelier vibe.

At 3 p.m., I was elbow-deep in shrimp goo, ripping off their little heads as their beady eyes seemed to judge me for not knowing how to devein them properly. I gagged a little. Okay, a lot. But I pushed through. Love — and garlic butter — would get me through. I went at it diligently picking every crabby morsel lovingly from the spiny crustaceous legs...no canned crab for this man!

At 6 p.m., I lit candles, dimmed the lights, and turned the soup to a gentle simmer. Gord was set to arrive at 7pm. At 7:10, Gord said he was “just leaving.” He lived about 30 minutes away. I figured maybe 7:45pm at the latest. And went to shower and get my 'pretty' on.

I waited. 8pm.

And waited. 8:30pm.

And then I waited some more. 9:10pm.

The soup turned from a delicate simmer to a resigned sludge. My make up wilted. My resolve cracked. By 9:15pm, the wine was open. By 9:17pm, I’d finished half the bottle and rage-texted something in all caps involving the words “RUDE,” “SOUP,” and “WASTED SHRIMP DEATHS.” By 10, I finished the bottle and possibly told my lamp I deserved better.

At 10:15, Gord texted, “Look, I'm really sorry but I don’t think this is going to work.” He had driven past my house, seen my angry little silhouette pacing in the window like a betrayed lighthouse keeper, and decided to dump me... via text. Classy.

The final insult? Six months later, he got engaged — to someone who I can only assume doesn’t cook or question his whereabouts or have the audacity to own seafood.

I learned a lot that night:

*Never cook for a chef unless you're emotionally prepared to eat it alone.

*Shrimp heads are hellspawn.

*Always have a backup dinner plan. Preferably involving pizza.

And most importantly — if a man can ghost you while you're literally making soup in his honor, he's not worth the broth he bailed on.