“A real woman gets up at 6 a.m. to feed her man,” declared a 59-year-old “aristocrat.” I quietly took out my calculator and sent him the bill.
Arkady Valentinovich was fifty-nine. On the dating site, he presented himself as a man of “old-school values, classical upbringing, and noble manners.” In every photo, there were tweed jackets, a thoughtful gaze over his glasses, and glasses filled with something ruby-colored in front of fireplaces.
As a thirty-eight-year-old woman, I had always treated such “aristocrats” with a healthy dose of skepticism. But after a string of painfully dull dates with men my own age who could barely hold a conversation, I thought: why not? An intellectual chat over coffee never hurt anyone.
We met in a rather pretentious place in the city center. Arkady Valentinovich arrived with a cane — as I later discovered, purely for the sake of looking distinguished — and from the very first moment began demonstrating those famous manners of his. He pulled out my chair, complimented my coat, and ordered himself a pot of elite pu-erh tea.
At first, the conversation really did go smoothly. We discussed theater, architecture, and recent literary releases. But, as often happens with “real men,” by the second hour Arkady had drifted toward his favorite subject: the tragic moral decline of modern women.
He dabbed his lips with a napkin, leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me with mild condescension, began his lecture.
“Do you understand,” he said, “the modern institution of marriage has been destroyed by female selfishness. Women have forgotten their true purpose. All these careers, self-development, fitness clubs… it’s all nonsense. A home is held together by feminine energy. My late mother, God rest her soul, never allowed my father to leave for work without a hot breakfast.”
I politely nodded, stirring my now-cold cappuccino.
“And what, in your opinion, does the ideal world look like?” I asked, mentally preparing myself for the classic patriarchal manifesto.
Arkady became visibly inspired. Clearly, he had been starving for an appreciative audience.
“It is very simple. A real woman wakes up at six in the morning. Before her man wakes up. She must make herself presentable so her husband never sees her looking messy, then go down to the kitchen and prepare a proper breakfast. None of that cereal-with-milk nonsense! Pancakes, cottage cheese fritters, porridge, freshly brewed coffee. A man must go out into the harsh world well-fed and peaceful. In the evening, naturally, he should come home to a hot three-course dinner, a clean house, ironed shirts, and a smiling wife ready to listen. That is love. That is service to the family.”
He fell silent, apparently expecting me to collapse in admiration at his wisdom and immediately run off to mix pancake batter.
Instead, I reached into my handbag. Not for a tissue to wipe away tears of repentance, but for my phone.
“What are you doing?” my companion asked, frowning slightly when he saw me open the calculator app.
“I’m calculating your love, Arkady Valentinovich,” I replied calmly. “Let’s translate your lofty ideals into the harsh language of numbers. You seem like a practical man. You should understand economics.”
I placed the phone on the table between us and began entering figures out loud.
“Point one: daily hot breakfasts at six in the morning and three-course dinners in the evening. Plus, I assume, grocery shopping for all this magnificence. In Moscow, the services of a private cook who prepares meals for one or two people on such a schedule cost around four to five thousand rubles per visit. But let’s be generous and calculate it as a monthly arrangement. A personal cook would cost you about 120,000 rubles a month.”
Arkady Valentinovich’s condescending smile disappeared.
“Point two,” I continued, calmly tapping the screen. “A clean home and ironed shirts. A good housekeeper who cleans, does laundry, and irons costs around three and a half to five thousand rubles per visit. To keep shirts fresh and floors shining, she would need to come at least two or three times a week. That adds another minimum of 40,000 rubles a month.”
I pressed the equals button.
“Total: 160,000 rubles. And that is only the basic domestic package. I’m not even including the services of a personal psychotherapist, which the wife is apparently also expected to provide every evening while listening to how unfair the world has been to you. A therapy session costs from three thousand rubles these days, by the way.”
I slid the phone toward him. The number 160,000 glowed on the screen.
“So tell me, Arkady Valentinovich, are you prepared to transfer 160,000 rubles to my card on the first day of every month? Just as compensation for the services I would be providing by waking up at six and standing at the stove? And please note, I haven’t even included cosmetics and beauty salon expenses so that I don’t appear ‘messy’ in front of you.”
Suddenly, the tweed jacket no longer looked quite so noble. His face turned blotchy and red. The aristocratic aura fell away from him faster than autumn leaves in a storm.
“What does money have to do with it?” His voice cracked and rose into a shrill falsetto. “You turn everything into something mercenary! I am talking about feelings! About a woman’s purpose! About the soul, for heaven’s sake! A wife should do these things out of love for her man, not for a salary!”
“So,” I rested my cheek on my hand and looked him directly in the eyes, “your soul requires a cook and a housekeeper to serve you for free? What a remarkably economical soul you have. You are not looking for love, Arkady. You are looking for unpaid domestic staff, while disguising your stinginess with grand words like ‘tradition’ and ‘purpose.’ But the time when women’s household labor was treated as something automatic and worthless is long gone.”
I placed enough money on the table to cover my coffee, stood up, and put on my coat.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Good luck searching for free servants. Although, with demands like yours, I’m afraid you don’t need a dating site. You need a staffing agency. And yes, be prepared: there, no one will discuss lofty feelings with you. They will ask for an advance payment.”
I walked out of the café, breathed in the cool evening air, and felt incredibly light.
For some reason, many men, especially from the older generation, sincerely believe they can exchange a couple of compliments and a cheap coffee for round-the-clock domestic service.
They call it “keeping the home.” But the moment you take out a calculator and translate their romantic expectations into market rates, the hysteria about female greed begins.
Wanting a clean and cozy home is normal. Wanting delicious food is normal too. What is not normal is trying to receive the labor of two well-paid professionals completely free of charge — and then expecting gratitude for it.
How do you react to statements like this from men? Have you ever met such “aristocrats” who genuinely believe you are obligated to wake up at dawn just to make them pancakes?