(untitled interlude from @copperbadge‘s Foodieverse, where everyone is a chef. Or just really likes food. This takes place after the boys get together in The Hot Hipster Chef Documentary, even though I shifted them from Steve’s place, where they were headed in that piece, to Tony’s place. Sam, the benevolent fellow that he is, let me do it. 8) )
He had no food.
Tony jammed the phone between his cheek and his shoulder. “I have no food,” he said, and it was so much worse when he said it aloud. He kind of wished he’d kept it to himself, but then again, he had no idea how to fix this, so saying it aloud was really his only hope.
He was working with very little sleep here.
There was a long, strained silence. “What?” Bruce finally asked, his voice slurred with sleep.
Tony stared into the empty maw of his fridge. “You know what’s in my fridge?” he asked. “A box of baking soda that’s seen better days, something that might once have been a ginger root, some mostly okay looking carrots and a shriveled head of cabbage, and two open bottles of mustard.” He stared at them, feeling irrationally betrayed. “And it’s not even good mustard, Bruce. It’s two jars of French’s Yellow Mustard.”
Another long pause. “I like yellow mustard,” Bruce said at last. He seemed to be coming up to speed slowly, but that was to be expected given the hour.
“Yeah, so do I, but not enough to have two open bottles! What-” Tony shoved a hand through his hair, glaring at his fridge and wishing the appliance had feelings he could hurt. “What the fuck is this, Bruce? Why is there NO FOOD?”
Bruce sighed. “Because we’ve barely left the restaurant in the last two weeks?” he asked. “That’s, that’d be my guess, Tony. Just call out for pizza, or Chinese, I don’t know, what TIME is it?”
Tony slammed the refrigerator door and stalked across the kitchen. “It’s two am, and I’m hungry, and I’m out of the city, so ordering is not a possibility, and even if I wanted to, that’s lazy, that’s like, a sixth or seventh date thing. That’s a ‘it’s snowing and I don’t want to get out of this bed ever, so let’s just eat lo mein out of the box and pretend to watch Netflix’ thing, I’m not going to be that lazy, at least not this fast, Jesus, I have standards.”
A beat of silence. “No, you don’t,” Bruce said.
“I like to pretend I do!” Bruce made a humming noise, and Tony’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “Okay, so, I have a reputation!”
“Yeah, but it has nothing to do with your food.”
“I’m a fucking chef.”
“Right. And that has nothing to do with your reputation.”