Chapter 1: The Man Can Eat
Andy eats like someone told him the restaurant is closing in four minutes. It doesn't matter what's on the plate — pasta, risotto, last night's leftovers, a random snack he found in the back of the fridge — it's gone before Eugene has even picked up a fork.
And then, twenty minutes later, without any shame whatsoever, he opens the fridge again. Just to "see what's there." He knows what's there. He was there. He ate it.
"I don't eat fast. You just chew too much."
This photo is real. Nobody staged this. That's just a regular Tuesday for Andy — two steaks, a drink, and the calm, focused energy of a man who has found his purpose. Eugene took the picture because at some point you stop being shocked and start collecting evidence.
Chapter 2: Eugene Runs the Kitchen (Mostly)
Now here's the twist nobody sees coming: Eugene is the one who actually cooks. He's the guy standing over the stove at 9pm making shrimp noodles from scratch while Andy hovers behind him asking "is it ready?" every ninety seconds like a child on a road trip.
They do cook together — usually on weekends, when there's time to make a whole thing of it. Andy chops. Eugene seasons. Andy tastes everything before it's finished, burns his tongue, does it again immediately. It's a system. A bad system, but a system.
"Andy's official job in the kitchen is quality control. He starts controlling the quality before I've even turned the stove on."
The lasagne, the risotto, the stuffed peppers, the pan-Asian noodles that started this whole obsession — most of it comes out of Eugene's side of the kitchen. Andy's contribution is enthusiasm, a bottomless appetite, and unsolicited opinions about salt.
Chapter 3: What Andy Calls "A Small Portion"
Andy will look at a plate of lasagne roughly the size of his own head and describe it as "not that much." He'll finish it. Then he'll say he could "maybe eat a little more." He is lying. He can eat a lot more. He always can.
Grocery shopping with him is a genuine hazard. We walk in for milk and eggs. We walk out with ingredients for four separate meals, two cheeses nobody requested, a dessert "for emergencies," and shrimp — because what if we want the noodles tomorrow? We will not be making the noodles tomorrow. We buy the shrimp anyway.
"He put three things on the list. We left with two full bags. I've stopped asking questions."
Chapter 4: Okay But Where Does It Actually Go
This is the part that makes zero sense, and Eugene thinks about it more than he'd like to admit.
Andy eats like the concept of moderation personally offended him. Lasagne Monday. A mountain of pasta Tuesday. Risotto Wednesday, extra parmesan, obviously. And then — and then — the man is somehow in ridiculous shape anyway. On someone who just inhaled two steaks in a photo we have on file. It makes no sense.
How? We don't fully know. Eugene has several theories. None of them survive scientific review.
"I made him an entire lasagne once. He finished it, went to the gym an hour later, and came back looking BETTER. I'm still not over it."
Chapter 5: Gym Together (The Real Reason Eugene Goes)
They go to the gym together. Every time. It's non-negotiable at this point.
The difference is in the vibe. Andy walks in like he owns the building — picks up heavy things, puts them down, repeats, looks completely at home. Eugene walks in and immediately forgets every single exercise he has ever learned in his life.
They spot each other. They argue about whether it's chest day or leg day. It is always chest day. Andy doesn't even bother arguing anymore, he just walks straight to the bench and Eugene follows like it was his idea.
"He adds weight to my bar and goes 'easy, you've got this.' It is not easy. He is lying again. He lies a lot, actually, mostly about food and gym weights."
And look — let's be honest about why Eugene never skips a session. Training next to someone who actually knows what they're doing is great motivation. That's the official reason, and we're sticking to it.
Chapter 6: How This Whole Thing Started
When they first moved to Barcelona, nobody in this apartment was cooking anything. It was takeaway, toast, and the occasional slice of cheese eaten standing up over the sink. Culinary rock bottom.
Then one night Eugene got bored and made pasta. Then risotto — with a genuinely alarming amount of parmesan. Then came the shrimp noodles. The ones that made Andy stop mid-bite, point at the bowl, and declare that Eugene was legally never allowed to stop making them.
"He said 'you can never stop making these.' That was months ago. I have not been released from this contract."
So now this is the arrangement. Eugene cooks most days. Andy eats most things most days. They cook together on weekends, when Andy is permitted near the seasoning under supervision. Everyone is happy. Especially Andy. Obviously Andy.
Chapter 7: The Verdict
So here's where the investigation landed. Andy eats too much, appreciates every bite like it's a religious experience, cooks surprisingly well when he's allowed to help, and stays in unfairly good shape through some cursed combination of good genes and never, ever missing the gym.
Eugene is fine with all of it.
Extremely fine. Suspiciously fine. The kind of fine where you take a photo of your boyfriend eating two steaks and think, yeah, I'd like to keep this one.
* * *
That's the case, closed. If you also date someone who eats like a competitive athlete and looks like one for no reason — solidarity. And if you're now hungry, that's on Andy. Blame him. We do.