what about...... chuck & yancy actually watching masterchef and chuck critiquing the heck out of Everything
Chuck tends not to watch too many cooking shows. They don’t contain anything he can’t find online, and online he could at least sift through the contents at his own pace and according to his own needs instead of having to watch someone take ten minutes to chop some herbs.
MasterChef is a different story, though.
And not the shitty American version, either – the montage is far too dramatic, there is too much focus on rude competitiveness (and this is coming from him), and the judges are so stereotypical it makes him cringe. The original English version is alright, educational and fair, but it also lacks the excitement to make him actually want to keep up.
MasterChef Australia, however, is perfect.
And he’s only partly of that opinion because he’s from Oz and it makes him nostalgic and unironically patriotic. The other part is because it’s both fun and informative, it’s got a plethora of amazing guest chefs, and most importantly, it makes him want to hop in the kitchen and cook.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to throw some healthy critique at the screen though.
Yancy’s indulges him by watching it with him, though he suspects that’s partly because he always makes them a snack of some kind. Tonight it’s cheesy nachos, nice and simple – he’ll save the more complicated stuff for when the show progresses and the contestants are making more intricate dishes, too – and Yancy dives right in when he settles down on the couch next to him.
It doesn’t take long for him to open his mouth.
“She’s not getting an apron,” he scoffs.
“Why’s that?” Yancy asks absentmindedly, popping another nacho in his mouth.
“She didn’t season her meat at all. It’s going to taste bland as shit.”
Yancy hums in agreement, pulling his legs up onto the sofa and scooting closer to Chuck. He likes watching the show, he’s just not as into the details as Chuck is. What he enjoys more is seeing how into it Chuck is. Making comments left and right, scoffing and laughing at what’s happening onscreen. His words are harsh sometimes, but there’s no real heat behind them. Chuck just has an immense passion for cooking, and it shows.
“There’s no balance to the dish whatsoever. You need acidity to make up for all the sweetness.”
“How about you don’t waste half a bottle of wine. Shitty wine, at that.”
“Ooh you made an Asian sauce? How terribly specific of you. I bet you can't find your house on a map either.”
“Yeah, good luck with that, mate, you burned your fucking scallops.”
Some contestants get approval as well, but Chuck’s more quiet when that happens, just a quiet comment on how good the dish looks or how skilled the participant seems. Yancy imagines he files away whatever they’re doing to try in his own kitchen the next day.
By the end of auditions, Yancy’s back is against Chuck’s chest, his head on his collarbone. Chuck’s raking his fingers through his hair when he speaks up, voice heavy with the early signs of sleep.
“You should try it.”
“What?” Chuck asks, pausing his ministrations.
“MasterChef,” Yancy clarifies, “you should audition. You’re really good.”
Chuck makes a noncommittal noise, which seems to satisfy Yancy, who sighs and leans back heavily against him. Chuck kisses the top of his head, staring at the screen intently, head suddenly swimming.
He looks up the audition requirements the next day. Just in case.
