#chef!patrick

[tashism]

chef zweig… the way too young, way too successful, way too messy chef of downtown manhattan… yeah…

[tashism]

‎𐂐⋆.˚ ´- please. you guys know i don’t write like this please please please give me grace. okay loaf you

THE REVIEW – chef!patrick x reader

“i mean, who the fuck do they think they are?!”

you’d known patrick could get… passionate about things like this. it’s 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 you’re in the shower, when you smoke your last cigarette of the night. on the rare occasion he’s back at his place before you’re back at yours, he’s fucking itching for you to get home.

but this new found ‘romance’ is besides the point.

since he’s gotten into your apartment he hasn’t shut up about some mystery review that baker friend sent him. “east village’s notoriously unimaginative ‘chef’ patrick zweig has left me less than stunned after three courses. again.” now, that’s what got him. it wasn’t the reference to his not-so-orthodox path to cooking, not the jabs at his failed pop-up attempts in brooklyn — no, it was the fact that they didn’t like his steak tartar.

“it’s classic, you don’t fuck with classic!” he laughs bitterly, stalking behind you as you clean up the kitchen. “you had the same thing they did the other day, the same exact thing, and you said it was amazing!” you can’t help but pray the sink starts to drown him out at some point. “classic’s boring, patrick, you know that. no one’s looking for more wagyu, or whatever you use-”

“it’s 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!”

“you’re saying my chicken was dry?”

“i’m saying it’s rude.” 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. “and what does art have to do with this?” you mutter, shrugging him off of you.

“nothing, i just…” he stands up straight, leaning against the counter behind you. “i can’t fucking escape her. everywhere i look, it’s her, i have to be as good as her. it makes no sense, it always comes back to her…” 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, it’s over, a sharp inhale breaking the barrier between you two.

“it was bad, baby.” he laughs, turning around and scurrying to the living room to grab your laptop. “i mean, you have to read this thing-”

“it’s dead.” 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 ‘relationship’? you both have a knack for dismissing shit. even if it’s getting hard to, he bites, his hands dropping to his sides with a suspicious silence.

close. too close.

[tashism]

chef!patrick but he’s not really cheffing in this but he’s still a chef i promise that will be relevant soon…

“mom- MOM, i can’t fucking find her!” you ramble frantically into the phone, hot tears streaming down your face as you flip every cushion, open every cabinet. you can’t entirely defend checking the junk drawers, but you do anyway — cats can squeeze into anything. “have you checked the tub? you know olive used to love the tub-” knock, knock, knock. you stop in your tracks, hunched over your hamper, thursday’s underwear hung over your shoulder, your face beet red and wet.

“i’ll call you back. if i killed that cat, i’m gonna kill myself, by the way.”

“WHY WOULD YOU-”

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 she’s 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. “your cat peed on my floor.” 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 you’d just been screaming about killing yourself over the cat about a minute prior to this interaction. “sorry…” you mutter, holding her close to your chest, pressing mildly aggressive kisses to the top of her head. “s’cute” patrick smiles, shoving his hands in his pocket. “what’s his name?”

“her. her name is meringue”

“aw, my friend would love that, he loves meringue”

“why does your friend know my cat?”

he doesn’t say much after that, just giving you a confused look and teasing grin, scratching behind your pet’s 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.

“he likes this kind of meringue, makes them too. but he thinks the cat is cute. i like the owner better ;)”