NYC doormen are the keepers of our secrets, that’s understood. But our doorman Mike? He’s upgraded himself to friend, confidant, and apparently, my husband’s culinary enabler.

Rob and Mike share more than just pleasantries. United by their Italian NYC roots, they bond over pasta theology, sacred bakery locations, and endless YouTube tutorials on achieving the perfect whatever-Italian-dish-is-trending-this-week. I’ve learned to budget an extra ten minutes for any building entrance or exit, as I inevitably find myself playing the role of long-suffering wife, tugging Rob away mid-conversation about the optimal San Marzano tomato or the must-visit stop for cannoli in the Bronx.

But here’s where life got interesting: Rob recently took a job that keeps him traveling most of the week. Mike, being the observant doorman he is, knows exactly who wears the chef’s hat in our household.

So now and then, when I slink through the lobby clutching my cardboard pizza box of shame, Mike greets me with that knowing smile, a theatrical “Bon Appétit!”, and the kicker: “Rob’s not back yet?”