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There are some things to be said about men in the kitchen: humble provider, gadget collector, domestic trainee, dominator of the grill, lover of texture-taste-plating, master of show, a man in a women’s world. They know they are default sex objects when performing in the kitchen, sort of like being born with a name like Maximilian.

Still, it always amazes me how many male friends I have that cook multiple times in a work week. “I hate paying a lot of money for a mediocre meal when I can make a better one myself,” says my white-collared friend Arnaud. He recently invited me into his kitchen for a demonstration of sautéed mushrooms, one-handed pasta tossing, and hot meat on a hot grill. I don’t know why I was so impressed. Maybe because it’s so rare to see men exercise their domestic muscle, or that I’m just the product of a more sexist time.

I invited myself over to another male friend’s place; he has the king of all BBQ set ups on his roof top. Over a charcoal dinner of sweet chilli prawns, Mexican grilled corn topped with a generous sprinkling of chilli powder and crumbled cotija cheese, porterhouse steaks from Lardos’ supplier, with lots of HP sauce, and copious rose wine from a box (I swear it was just as good as the bottled stuff), we were chatting away about a friend who had fallen madly in love with a gentleman who cooked her a meal from scratch. She falls in love so easily, I thought quietly. But then I rang her to find out more.

“He has the most amazing kitchen; you’d go crazy if you saw it. He owns one of those stoves his designer imported from a restaurant in France, this long marble counter with a temperature switch underneath it. He has… a KitchenAid,” she said in worship. “He made me baby lamp chops, scallop potatoes with a load of cream, and this baked brie to start.” Baked brie? It was such a wartime mom kind of dish to whip up I had to chortle. Wait a minute…

“Did he do a little puff pastry thing over the brie and decorate it with a heart-shaped cutout?” She stared at me like I had been the proverbial fly on the wall at their romantic dinner. “Did he sear the lamb chops in a copper pan he bought on a trip to St Petersburg? Does he live on Magazine Gap Road?” I should’ve stopped myself right there as I saw her heart break in slow motion. “He cooked me the same meal,” I said, and cringed.

Ewww, how could he? It was exquisitely tacky. “And who makes baked brie anyway? Betty Crocker?” I said to break the silence. The dish was so dated we had to laugh it off. It turned into an uncomfortable chuckle when we each wondered how far the other had gone with this guy.

For the next week, I just couldn’t leave this alone. How can you recycle the same menu to different prospective partners? And how many are we talking about exactly here? I sent him a fax, a device no doubt best suited to his generation, “Dude, you should really update your menu. You need original material. Best, Angie”

Weeks later, I was rummaging through my friend Matt’s kitchen looking for a corkscrew. Snooping through drawers was never so much fun. I found colourful Popsicle trays, syringes, gun-shaped lighter, plastic pipettes, a collection of Finnish spatulas, a miniaturised blow-torch, a set of cappuccino spoons, plastic sporks, serving bowls with wings on them, and egg circles. I brought out the latter hoping he would enlighten me with an answer. “I don’t usually fry eggs, but when I do I want perfect circles, like an Egg McMuffin.” he shrugged. “And this one?” I asked, holding up a floppy silicon ring. “My grandmother uses it to open jars,” he replied. “But your grandmother lives in Connecticut. It’s yours isn’t it?” I teased. “No way dude. It’s not mine,” he admonished, and turned to play with his Blackberry.

It seems you can put a man in the kitchen, but you can’t get him to be man enough to admit to needing assistance to open a jar.