chef zweig⊠the way too young, way too successful, way too messy chef of downtown manhattan⊠yeahâŠ


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chef zweig⊠the way too young, way too successful, way too messy chef of downtown manhattan⊠yeahâŠ

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âđâ.Ë ÂŽ- please. you guys know i donât write like this please please please give me grace. okay loaf you
THE REVIEW â chef!patrick x reader
âi mean, who the fuck do they think they are?!â
youâd known patrick could get⊠passionate about things like this. itâs been two weeks since the whole great-cat-escape of apartment 6A, and the guy has just about embedded himself in every part of your routine. he knows when you get home, he knows when you wake up, when you go to sleep, when youâre in the shower, when you smoke your last cigarette of the night. on the rare occasion heâs back at his place before youâre back at yours, heâs fucking itching for you to get home.
but this new found âromanceâ is besides the point.
since heâs gotten into your apartment he hasnât shut up about some mystery review that baker friend sent him. âeast villageâs notoriously unimaginative âchefâ patrick zweig has left me less than stunned after three courses. again.â now, thatâs what got him. it wasnât the reference to his not-so-orthodox path to cooking, not the jabs at his failed pop-up attempts in brooklyn â no, it was the fact that they didnât like his steak tartar.
âitâs classic, you donât fuck with classic!â he laughs bitterly, stalking behind you as you clean up the kitchen. âyou had the same thing they did the other day, the same exact thing, and you said it was amazing!â you canât help but pray the sink starts to drown him out at some point. âclassicâs boring, patrick, you know that. no oneâs looking for more wagyu, or whatever you use-â
âitâs like if i came here tonight, ate the chicken, smiled in your face, and texted someone about how dry it was- and on top of that, compared you to art!â
âyouâre saying my chicken was dry?â
âiâm saying itâs rude.â patrick stands behind you while you scrub at the admittedly dry bits of chicken stuck to your cast iron, his hands mindlessly boxing you in against the counter. he leans his forehead down on your shoulder, an all-too-exasperated sigh leaving him. âand what does art have to do with this?â you mutter, shrugging him off of you.
ânothing, i justâŠâ he stands up straight, leaning against the counter behind you. âi canât fucking escape her. everywhere i look, itâs her, i have to be as good as her. it makes no sense, it always comes back to herâŠâ the silence that stretches between you two after that is nauseating, the only thing breaking it up being the sound of running water and clanking dishes.
her. this unknown evil, a constant, nagging entity who constantly leaves him ten steps behind. but as soon as the silence starts, itâs over, a sharp inhale breaking the barrier between you two.
âit was bad, baby.â he laughs, turning around and scurrying to the living room to grab your laptop. âi mean, you have to read this thing-â
âitâs dead.â you shout from the kitchen, drying the soapy water from your hands and following closely behind him, grabbing at the computer the second he opens it. your favorite thing about this ârelationshipâ? you both have a knack for dismissing shit. even if itâs getting hard to, he bites, his hands dropping to his sides with a suspicious silence.
close. too close.
chef!patrick but heâs not really cheffing in this but heâs still a chef i promise that will be relevant soonâŠ
âmom- MOM, i canât fucking find her!â you ramble frantically into the phone, hot tears streaming down your face as you flip every cushion, open every cabinet. you canât entirely defend checking the junk drawers, but you do anyway â cats can squeeze into anything. âhave you checked the tub? you know olive used to love the tub-â knock, knock, knock. you stop in your tracks, hunched over your hamper, thursdayâs underwear hung over your shoulder, your face beet red and wet.
âiâll call you back. if i killed that cat, iâm gonna kill myself, by the way.â
âWHY WOULD YOU-â
click.
you fix up your shirt and wipe your face as best you can, the panicked pit in your stomach not exactly leaving as you head to the door, throwing it open. maybe she became a human and now sheâs back, that happened in a show once. and in a way, she did. on the other side of the door is your neighbor, cradling your cat like his own, his eyebrows quirking together at the state of you. âyour cat peed on my floor.â he smiles, outstretching his arms, the wannabe houdini in his hands.
you press your lips into an embarrassed line, knowing how thin the walls in this building are, knowing youâd just been screaming about killing yourself over the cat about a minute prior to this interaction. âsorryâŠâ you mutter, holding her close to your chest, pressing mildly aggressive kisses to the top of her head. âsâcuteâ patrick smiles, shoving his hands in his pocket. âwhatâs his name?â
âher. her name is meringueâ
âaw, my friend would love that, he loves meringueâ
âwhy does your friend know my cat?â
he doesnât say much after that, just giving you a confused look and teasing grin, scratching behind your petâs ears before turning on his heel and walking back into his apartment. and that was the end of it. the cat was home safe, cast down to her bed for one hour of the night before you let her cuddle up to you for the night. it felt like a fair punishment. that was the end of it until you were heading out for work, kicking a plastic tray of pink and white dollops, a little note on top.
âhe likes this kind of meringue, makes them too. but he thinks the cat is cute. i like the owner better ;)â