Inspired by the food articles I’m editing, written by cooks and gastronomes who really feel what they eat, who eat sensuously—I thought about how my own eating habits have changed over the years, influenced in no small part by who I was eating with, or rather, who was taking me out to eat. This is the short list of men who have fed me, proving very well that you are not just what, but how, you eat.

The first boyfriend: We were young, broke, and lived fast, in Los Angeles no less. The food we ate reflected that: Panda Express, Jack in the Box, and for special occasions, Inn-N-Out, which were balanced with the occasional edgy, underground eatery where celebrities would slum.Taco trucks were usually the last stop after a night of clubbing—right before the toilet bowl.

The adventurer: He was an eater the way Filipinos are, which meant he needed his pork. Growing up with a Seventh Day Adventist mother meant pork was a dirty four letter word at home, but living far away from the Philippines, I gave in to sisig, chicharon bulaklak, crispy pata and lechon like I was experimenting with drugs. There was always something new to try in New York, and I had my first molecular gastronomy meal with him, as well as my last Southern fried soul dish.

The cheapskate: He was one of those who “eats to live, not lives to eat.” He couldn’t understand foodies who would dream about their next dinner and thought it morally unconscionable to place dining pleasure on such a high pedestal. The truth was he was actually just looking for a free meal. He also wasn’t a drinker. The relationship didn’t last long.

The finicky eater: He bought organic veggies at the weekend market and kept abreast of culinary trends. He loved food and eating out, but inexplicably just couldn’t eat a lot of it because of some exotic macrobiotic/gluten-free diet he was on. This complex carb aversion gave me a carb complex, and fat is the the last thing a girl wants to feel like next to her man.

The current one: He’s not obsessed with food, doesn’t care about the latest celebrity cheffed restaurants, and will easily skip a meal for a more liquid one of beer. Yet I owe it to sushi and a Facebook comment on sustainable fish for us getting together. He will make me an awesome sandwich when I’m hungry or grill a piece of meat over a fire and a rusty grate if that’s what it came down to. He jokes about being my kitchen bitch, but it’s how, as a man, he takes part in the nourishment of our two-month old daughter, who survives solely on breastmilk. In the future as an adult, when she turns to comfort food it will likely be based on these earliest flavors: of butter or lemon (because of him) and well, Starbucks (because of me).