The shortest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and it does not need to involve elaborate, exotic, or gourmet dishes. Here's my love story. 

In 1976, I was in Hong Kong to cover an event at the exclusive Foreign Correspondents Club as stringer for United Press International (UPI). I needed an FCC member to escort me in. The office made arrangements for one of the HK desk editors to introduce me to the club. 

My coverage was at not until mid-afternoon, so I agreed to meet my FCC sponsor for lunch. He called in the morning, however, with a voice too hoarse to be understood. He was also coughing very badly, obviously in no shape to work. Complicating his problems was the fact that he had just moved to HK from New Delhi and had yet to have a support group. The mother in me decided to help a colleague in trouble. 

I always travel with Vicks Vaporub, inhaler, and flu medicine, which at the time I decided he needed more than I did. Various fruits completed my bag of aid that I handed to this surprised, but obviously sick person whom I ordered back to bed. 

Too weak to protest, he obeyed without a whimper. He was too weak to turn down my gameplan—a sponge bath, Vick’s Vaporub, thick blanket to sweat out the fever, nap, then repeat. What his late mother would have done, he murmured with a shy smile. 

Being a female journalist prepared us for various situations such as caring for our fellow journos, male and female. After the first phase, his fever eased and he was breathing easier. Refreshed with a cup of tea, he willingly submitted to more vaporub and fell asleep. Another editor took me to the FCC. 

After my coverage, I went to check on my “patient,” whose fever was almost gone but who woke up starving. Like a typical bachelor, his ref contained several eggs, butter, almoststale bread, beer, bananas with brown   spots, bottles of beer, and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. The cupboard had nothing but sugar and Coffee-Mate. He was dying to go out for fluffy scrambled eggs but he was still too weak to walk down five flights of stairs to leave his flat. I ordered him to go back to bed, promising him a plate of scrambled eggs.

 In the kitchen, I dissolved a teaspoon of coffee creamer in 1/3 cup water, broke in four eggs, added salt and pepper, and beat the mixture well. I cooked the eggs until fluffy. He ate the whole thing, wondering how it could be done with his meager supplies. His next meal was even better: French toast with fresh fruits in syrup. Later, he found out I could really cook. But all that matters, he confesses, is “You can even make scrambled eggs!” Yes, Mr. Vic Vanzi, I can even make scrambled eggs.