Spain's National Treasure

How to Catch a Husband with Paella

You heard it here first, ladies. It is possible to land a man with paella. Even if you are a horrible cook, it is foolproof. The adage that you catch a man through his stomach is absolutely true. And there is an added surprise. He never has to eat it.

1999 was the year I moved to Colorado. My divorce from my first husband was finalized; I moved there to lick my wounds. My friend Patty offered me her spare room in exchange for a share of the rent, and I needed a change of scenery. It was a win-win for both of us.

After becoming newly single, I started seeing a man shortly thereafter. Immediately, I knew he was the one. Well, the second one, though he should have been my first. But let’s just call him the first, and we will call my first the mulligan.

I am an excellent cook. I have always been. When I was six, I learned to cook and continued to refine my skills and techniques over the years. Having heard the well-worn saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, I planned an elaborate meal and invited him over one evening.

I purchased seafood, along with garlic and onions, and set to work. The beginning of the process was simple. Sauté the onions and garlic, then add the dry rice and brown it slightly before adding liquid. The fish would come in stages at the end. Most fish cook in three to five minutes.

The house smelled of seafood and spices when he arrived. He commented on the luscious aroma as he walked in. My chest puffed out. The line was cast.

Because the main course was not yet done, we started with some salad. He enjoyed it, and I felt pride bubble up. I make a mean Caesar dressing.

Intermittently, I would check on the paella, waiting for the exact moment to add the shrimp, lobster, whitefish, and clams. When the moment came, I started with the densest seafood. As those reached their fully cooked state, I added the remaining seafood and timed it carefully.

When the seafood was ready, I checked the dish and was about to turn it off to serve it, but I noticed the liquid had not fully evaporated. The rice did not look fully cooked either, so I opted to leave it on a low setting a bit longer.

Meanwhile, I sat back down, apologized, and chatted with my date as we waited.

I got up again, and not much had changed. The rice was undercooked and crunchy, and the fish was dangerously overcooked. The liquid had evaporated, but the rice still wasn’t fully cooked. What do you do in this case? You add a little more liquid. I did that.

Over and over, I did the same procedure. I didn’t know what had gone wrong. My now-husband came into the kitchen to see what was happening, and I informed him that it was still not done. I let it go another couple of minutes. I don’t even remember how many times I went through the same routine, but at some point, the rice was cooked.

I saw a little liquid remained, and figured the rice would absorb some. I hoped. I began to serve our meal. Then two things happened.

First, I noticed that the seafood had turned to mush. Yuk. The shellfish was somewhat salvageable, but it was still overdone and just a tad rubbery. I could not serve it. It was gross and left a terrible impression of my skills as a cook.

Being the kind and sweet person he is, my date said we should give it a go. So we sat down with our plates and began to eat. My fingers barely want to type what happened next.

The rice was indeed cooked, but it was soupy. The whitefish was indispensable because it had disintegrated into porridge. As for the seafood, it was suitable for tennis or handball, but not for eating. Rubbery is an understatement. I was crushed. If it had tasted good, I could have at least redeemed myself, but it was fishy in the worst way and more like oatmeal than rice. This was a complete disaster.

I did not know what to say to him. I invited him over for a meal to impress him and show off my prowess in the kitchen, but I failed miserably. Then he began to chuckle.

I was getting upset that he was laughing at me. He laughed outright, so I asked him what was so funny. He was so nice about it and said he should have told me what I wondered. I asked him. That’s when he redeemed me.

He told me that at altitude, rice and other foods cook differently. Water boils at a lower temperature, so foods take longer to cook. He had forgotten that I had just moved from Florida to Colorado. He didn’t realize I would know nothing about it, since Florida is at sea level. My husband managed to ease my suffering and make it okay. Good man. We ate out.

We have been married for over 25 years. In a few months, it will be 26. Over the years, I have said I wanted to make him paella again and again, but he always asks me not to. I ruined him. It really was that bad.

We laugh about it now, and have for all these years. Everyone who knows us knows the malevolent rice story. I have never tried the dish again; that said, he did buy me a paella pan a couple of years ago. I think it was a symbolic gesture. Paella, the dish that shall not be named, taunts me every time I look at the pan.

I did get the man through his stomach, but it was more of an attempted poisoning than a full belly. He’s still alive, by the way, and he loves everything else I cook.

Spain, my apologies for destroying the national dish’s reputation. Mia culpa.

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