I’d had the Chilean sea bass filets soaking in a garlic lemon marinade since early yesterday evening, before I’d stripped down, poured myself a glass of pinot, and taken a long, hot, steamy bubble bath.

This morning, I had carefully carved dozens of delicate slivers of fresh mozzarella and gorgonzola and placed them on a covered dish to the side along with the roma tomato medallions I’d sliced up shortly thereafter. I then spent a few hours arranging the perfect music playlist to set the tone for the evening to come. I thoughtfully blended from early 80s prog-rock, to new-age folk epics, to bass-heavy club rock before transitioning into sultry chamber synth that finally gave way to some straight up swank.

Following a terribly satisfying nap on the chaise and a quick run to the market for the fresh herbs I’d forgotten to pick up the day before, I headed back and began work on the meal that I knew would seal the deal with the beau I’d been courting for the last couple of weeks.

Surveying the dishes and utensils laid out on my marble countertop like a surgeon surveys his instruments, I breathed in a deep breath of pride and confidence before diving into the hours of the prep work I had in front of me.

I began by sawing angular wedges out of my loaf of fresh-baked French bread and arranged them on my baking stone. After drizzling a generous sloshing of extra virgin olive oil over each slice, I topped the yellowish, oil-soaked bread with a few medallions of tomato and slices of the cheeses I prepared earlier to each piece. I finished off assembling my bruschetta appetizer with a thick pinch of the fresh basil and oregano that I had diced into a chiffaunade after my afternoon nap. And then, of course, I slathered on another few drops of oil, just for good measure.

I eased the baking stone to the back of the range. It wasn’t quite time to begin firing the bruschetta yet. Rather, I needed to begin work on the tapenade I’d be searing atop the sea bass filets.

I eased my non-stick pan onto the front burner and fired my gas range up to medium heat. I drizzled in a dollop of olive oil and lifted and swirled the pan handle to spread it evenly around the skillet. I cut off a few tablespoons of butter from the room temperature stick I’d set out on my grey-blue marble countertop and added it to the smoking oil. The thick aroma of searing oil rose through the air, tickling my nostrils and stirring my blood to a low simmer. I then dumped in the bowl full of fresh porcini mushrooms I had in the fridge, and licked my lips as the tasty little fungi seared and popped in the oil-butter mixture as they wilted and browned to a divine combination of intense earthy flavor and melt-in-your-mouth texture.

When the mushrooms’ stamina had been bested by the heat of the pan and they gave up their moisture, falling limp in the hot butter, I took them from the heat and poured them with a sloppy plop into a stainless steel mixing bowl. I then returned the pan to the burner and let it resume absorbing the heat my gas range was firing into its Teflon core.

Next came the olives. I had spent the better part of the afternoon after I’d returned from the market painstakingly pitting more