I'm told it's not a guy thing. Rugby is a guy thing. Golf is a guy thing. Even boys' nights out are a guy thing. But cooking. That's what you do when your wife's out of town and the cook is sick and Dominos doesn't deliver in your area. And even then you really shouldn't do much more than microwave popcorn and pour a beer.

Which I am happy to do on occasion. But I like cooking. The strange thing is that I really don't much care for food. I can't go in search of the perfect pasta or the best biryani in Bombay, something a number of my friends do. I won't eat a bad meal, but I'm happy to accept the ordinary. But making the meal, that's something I take pleasure in.

There is something therapeutic in cooking. In the slow stirring of a soup. In the kneading of dough for pasta or a pie. In the chopping of vegetables and the crushing of herbs. There is the satisfaction of making something transient. Something that will sit on a plate for a few brief moments before it's gone.

And there is the pleasure in having made people happy. To have them say they'd like a second helping. That it was a great meal. That the salad dressing was terrific. It makes the two days you've spent in the kitchen worth it. I am not a big fan of fusion cooking. I like my food back to the basics. Other cooks get clever in the kitchen. I choose comfort foods instead. If I were asked to pick just one cuisine it would be Italian. Even the simplest spaghetti and meatballs can make me feel good at the end of a rotten day. Pizza, even Dominos, I could eat every day. And for a cook, Italian food brings the most perfect marriage of ingredients. Subtle spices, generous herbs, all put together with meats and vegetables on a culinary canvas.

Cooking for UpperCrust is not easy. There are far too many people looking over your shoulder to see if you're doing the right thing. And what you're putting into the pots and the pans. There is the fear that the editor, having dined at the highest tables in the land, will scoff at your recipes as too simple.

I begin by warning her that this is a simple meal. Made for an evening when summer is beginning to break. A cold carrot soup with the hint of orange and lemon zest. Chicken Cacciatore, lush with tomatoes and olives. Pasta, freshly made, rolled by my six year old son's expert hand. A rissotto, bright green with spinach, peas and mint, but with the pink hint of Parma ham. And to end a creme brulee flavoured with honey. She wants to know if that's all. I tell her it's enough.

I don't like cooking ahead. But this is because most of what I like making can't be made ahead. I also don't like buffet tables. The concept of standing while eating is an unholy aberration. Meals are meant to be eaten sitting down, and slowly. You can't have a conversation while you're struggling to de-bone a chicken wing with just a fork in your hand. And the whole point of a good meal is the conversation. Not the food.

Because I usually cook all the way through to the food reaching the table, I like having my guests in the kitchen with me. There's enough room for three or four of them to stand around. There's usually a bottle of wine handy to fill glasses, and to be poured into whatever's on the stove. The better the conversation, the more alcohol I tend to use in my cooking. There is no real reason for this, but it does make everything taste better.

I also like to get them to help while they're there. Stirring the rissotto while I check on the chicken. Shaving slices of Parmesan or prosciutto into the pot. Tasting the results, telling me if I need more pepper, because I hate tasting the food myself. And because something like a rissotto needs to be treated gently and constantly if it is to come out right, we end being there for close to an hour. By then they've earned their supper.

I serve dinner early. Certainly by Bombay standards. Not because I'm in a hurry to have everyone leave. I figure if I've spent all that time in the kitchen over the meal, I'd like my guests to treat it with respect. To taste the food, not wolf it down after six whiskies. Dinner itself, all four or five courses, takes a couple of hours, helped by at least that many bottles of wine.

If the meal's gone right, I'll get someone ask for more of something. Only to find there is isn't any because it's all gone. And that I think is the highest praise a cook can ask for.