“I’m used to home-cooked meals. Restaurants are vulgar,” said my 57-year-old fiancé when he showed up at my place empty-handed. My reaction made him blush
The doorbell rang exactly at the agreed time. I fixed my hair, gave the little table I had set in the living room one last critical glance, and went to open the door.
Igor was standing outside.
He was fifty-seven. We had met about a month earlier at an exhibition, had coffee in the city center a couple of times, and now he had finally invited himself over. Yes, invited himself.
“Anna, enough of these coffee shops. Let me come to your place, and we’ll spend a cozy evening at home,” he had said the night before in that velvet, enveloping voice of his.
I agreed. It was Friday evening, after a difficult workweek, and I had no desire to drive anywhere, search for parking, or sit in a noisy restaurant.
I opened the door wide. Igor stepped inside wearing a solid wool coat and polished shoes, smelling of expensive cologne — and carrying absolutely nothing.
Out of habit, I glanced down, thinking maybe he had placed a bag or bouquet on the floor while removing his gloves. But no. Not a single flower. Not even a symbolic box of chocolates. Not a bottle of wine.
The man had come to a woman’s home for the first private dinner date as if he were simply returning to his own bedroom after a long day at work.
I swallowed my surprise, pretended everything was fine, and invited him in.
In the living room, a beautifully arranged table was waiting for him. I had not planned to stand over the stove.
First, I work as a department head, and on a Friday night all I want is peace and rest. Second, I genuinely believe that a first date at home should not be an audition for the role of personal cook.
I had bought excellent farm cheeses, grapes, nuts, a fresh baguette, lightly salted trout, and opened a bottle of good dry wine that had been waiting for the right occasion. It was perfect for a light, relaxed evening.
Igor lowered himself heavily into the armchair. He looked over the table. His eyebrows slowly rose, and his face took on an expression of deep disappointment mixed with judgment.
“Is this… an appetizer?” he asked, condescendingly picking up a piece of blue cheese with a skewer.
“It’s a light dinner,” I replied calmly. “But if you’re hungry, we can order a good steak from the restaurant nearby, or delivery from the Georgian bistro. They’ll bring it in about forty minutes, and their food is excellent.”
And that was when his one-man performance began.
Igor pushed the cheese plate away with visible distaste, leaned back in the chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. He had the posture of a man inspecting the work of a careless employee.
“Anya,” he began, in the tone of a wise elder scolding a schoolgirl, “to be honest, I’m unpleasantly surprised. I’m used to normal home-cooked food. Rich borscht, baked meat, homemade pies. Restaurants and these delivery services of yours are vulgar. They’re fake food. A woman should know how to welcome a man properly, to show warmth through her hands, through the stove, through effort. Feeding me store-bought cheese and offering restaurant plastic from a courier… that’s not serious for a woman your age.”
I sat in my armchair and listened in silence.
I was simply trying to process the absurdity of the situation.
The man was fifty-seven years old. He had come into someone else’s home. In fact, he had practically imposed his visit on me. He had arrived completely empty-handed. And now he was sitting on my sofa, explaining to me — an independent forty-five-year-old woman — what I owed him and how I should have bent over backward at the stove.
A cold anger began to rise inside me, but outwardly I remained perfectly calm. That calmness has always helped me put arrogant people in their place.
Slowly, I set my glass down on the table and stood up.
“You know, Igor,” I said quietly, but with an intonation that made him immediately stop pursing his lips and look at me carefully, “I completely agree with you. Traditions are wonderful.”
His face began to relax. A smug look appeared in his eyes. Clearly, he thought his little lecture had worked, and that I was about to rush into the kitchen to make dumplings or fry cutlets.
“In the traditional world you’re referring to,” I continued, looking him straight in the eyes, “a man who expects a home feast is a provider. He does not walk into a woman’s home waving his empty hands around. He brings the mammoth. Or, in modern terms, heavy bags of quality groceries from the market. He brings flowers to show respect to the hostess for her effort. He contributes.”
Igor blinked several times. The smile slowly slid off his face.
“You came empty-handed,” I said, pronouncing every word clearly without raising my voice. “You didn’t bring even the most pathetic chocolate bar for tea. You invested neither a coin nor a gram of effort into this evening. And yet you demand top-class service and dare to criticize what I bought with my own money for us to share.”
He opened his mouth to object, but I did not let him interrupt.
“Home-cooked food is not vulgar, Igor. What’s vulgar is showing up as a freeloader and acting entitled. What’s vulgar is looking not for a woman to love, but for a free maid with the added functions of entertainer and restaurant chef. My kitchen is closed to anyone who doesn’t know the basic rules of decency.”
I walked to the hallway, took his heavy coat from the hanger, brought it back into the living room, and placed it directly on the armrest of the chair where he was sitting.
“Put it on. There will be no steaks. And no pies either.”
You should have seen his face at that moment.
Red blotches spread across it, starting from his neck and reaching all the way to the roots of his graying hair. This grown, self-assured man actually blushed because someone had finally pointed out his greed and everyday rudeness openly and mercilessly.
He was used to women smoothing things over, tolerating things, trying to please. But this time, the system had failed.
He snatched the coat from the armrest.
“Mercenary…” he hissed, trying to get his trembling hands into the sleeve. “You’re all the same now. All you care about is money! Too stingy to make a normal man a bowl of borscht!”
“I need good manners and common sense, Igor. Apparently, you weren’t given either. Goodbye.”
The lock clicked. The door slammed behind him.
I exhaled, shook off that sticky tension, poured myself some wine, and turned on my favorite series. Strangely enough, my soul felt light and clean. No regret. Only relief that this theater of absurdity had ended so quickly, before it had the chance to steal more of my time and nerves in the future.
And the farm cheese, by the way, was truly excellent.
I often think about that evening.
Why do so many men, after crossing a certain age, begin to believe that the mere fact of their presence on a woman’s sofa is already some great gift?
A gift so precious that a woman should jump out of her shoes after work and start a second shift at the stove? Where does this sacred confidence come from — the belief that everyone owes them something simply because they are men?
What would you have done in my place?
Would you have tried to smooth things over, apologized, and cooked something quickly just to avoid ruining the evening? Or would you also have shown this “traditional” gentleman the door?