My dad is a chef… so I can lay this fetish at the altar of Daddy issues. I’ve dated a few chefs in the past and have said since I was a child that I could never love a man who couldn’t cook my steak properly. I like mine prepared medium rare which is not difficult. I can do it with my eyes closed…. hell… I can do it in the damn air fryer if I’m being lazy.
Not a single man in my life has been able to do it.
I’ve dated three gourmet chefs, and ruining my steak is a deal breaker for me. I can tolerate medium, won’t eat medium-well and firmly believe that well done = fucking ruined. Why disrespect the life of the cow like that??? Stick to pork if you like to cook your meat to death.
Chef #1 made me a ribeye. It was a beautiful steak. 2″ thick, bone in… and dry rubbed with something that smelled like he might be boyfriend material. Every chef I’ve dated has had a significant alcohol problem… which sort of goes with the territory in my experience. At any rate, I picked up his water glass instead of mine and took a big drink.
GAG… COUGH… CHOKE…he was drinking lukewarm vodka, not water. This should have been my first sign that the poor beautiful steak headed into the pan might not come out the way I’d hoped. He made a big show of presenting my dinner with the shakiest hands I’ve ever seen in my life and I took one bite.
It was grey, sad and dry. That lovely rub had turned into charred chards of bitter flakes and I didn’t want to take another bite.
1: How’s your steak?
Well done… but not really. It was fucking ruined. Fun.
I tried to muster up the grace to eat it… but I couldn’t. He was offended, I was hungry and we didn’t go out again.
Chef #2 I met in his own restaurant. Surely he had to be able to cook a steak, right?
Wrong. He came over to cook me dinner and I was SURE he was going to be able to pull it off.
He made me a filet, and the smell was enough to make my clothes fall off by themselves. I shook us two dirty martinis while he put dinner on the table. Things were looking promising and I was starving in every which way. Grinning at him broadly, I cut into my steak with glee.
I was met with a dull grey slab touched by a faint pink horizon across the center. Medium well. Damn it.
I was so disappointed I frowned and he knew it. I swear I’m not thankless, but I have absolutely no desire in eating an overcooked steak and my manners are significant enough that I feel compelled to try.
Swallowing hard chunks of dry, flavorless meat where a divine steak should be, is so disappointing. I honestly would prefer it blood rare to medium well and a mouth full of blood gives me the heebie-jeebies.
#2 I overcooked your steak. I read your blog… I know what that means.
He wasn’t wrong.
Chef #3 did not make me a steak, so it’s slightly unfair to include him in this list, but he brings the other half of my food fetish to the table.
Men who order for me. <swoon>. I’m shy and hated to order my own food as a kid. My dad always ordered for me and I’d forgotten how much I loved that, until a date of mine asked if I minded if he ordered for us. I must have looked stunned.
#3 What? Is that rude? I’m not being a caveman, this is just my favorite place and I want to treat you to my top 5.
J- Not rude at all, I love that actually.
The server approached and I looked down at the menu, eyeing the steak I wanted.
He ordered me chicken, and steak for himself.
Call me Petty Betty, but I never liked him much after that.
Food is love to me. I spoil the people I love with the vegetables I grow, the stuff I can and put in the pantry, baked treats and everything edible in between. If I love you, I feed you food to rival your mama’s cooking. I have cooked the pants off of a few men, I admit it.
So a man who knows his way around the stove is a weakness of mine a mile wide. A dominant man who can tell me about it… is my absolute achilles. I am powerless to the inspiration a man can create when he starts talking about cooking.
My favorite man stumbled across this big old fetish of mine, recently.
I- Mmmm, I know. I’ll dice and saute some garlic and onions, chop some mushrooms and throw those in. A perfect medium rare steak sounds good… don’t you think?
My mouth is dry. My panties are not. I can’t speak, because I’m too afraid of what I’ll ask him for. It won’t be G-rated, I know that much.
J- You honestly may as well get your dick out and put it in my face. I can’t even. I’m. No. You have to stop. I can’t talk about food with you.
He grins and I know I’ve given him too much information. He leans in closer and tells me how he’s going to make butterflied shrimp. I have goosebumps and can’t look him in the eyes.
I- Mmm … then add a tablespoon of butter at the end of
He laughs and I am red as a radish and breathing heavily, trying to shake it off while returning his smoldering gaze with my own blazing stare.
J- You’re gonna make me cum. Stop it.
I- Maybe fish tacos? Chop up some cabbage and jalapenos while the rockfish cooks? You like cheese… I know… shrimp alfredo with a little smoked paprika.
I buried my face in his neck and begged.
J- You’re killing me… you have to stop.
I- Or maybe some corn chowder?
I laughed and kissed his neck before getting up to leave.
J- You are a mean, cruel man. Thanks for the half dozen orgasms I’m going to have to chase after this recipe hour. Brat.
He looked like the cat who swallowed the canary and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to wanting to see if he could actually cook my steak correctly.
There’s a first time for everything and the curiosity is killing me….