Please pardon mon français, an one piece fanfic

So, thing is, I'm French. Why bother with another language when I can stuff mine into whoever's mouth as I need it. Also, sorry if this doesn't make a lot of sense, no one betaed this thing so there might be shameful mistakes in it.

Zoro had only met his neighbour twice. The first time when he moved in, sleeves rolled up and sweat on his forehead as he was carrying large boxes into his new apartment. At that time, he also met Nami, who apparently was something between his neighbour's sister, girlfriend and best friend.

(he realized a few weeks later that she had once dated Luffy for the extensive period of three days before settling with a girl from their university)

The second time was because a dumb kid had started the fire alarm and everyone had to leave their bed at three in the fucking morning. Admittedly, he didn't remember much from that encounter, except for the ridiculous Pokemon shirt the guy was wearing. It was early, okay?

The fact was, he didn't know a lot about the guy. His name was Sanji, he had stupid eyebrows and the corridor always smelled like heaven when the guy was cooking, because his door had a problem and couldn't close right unless he locked himself inside.

Also, he was fucking gorgeous. And definitively very straight, if the number of women visiting his flat every week was anything to go by.

(mind you, Zoro wasn't gay. He was a healthy young man perfectly capable of admitting when a guy was good-looking. That's all.)

Given that they were in Japan and that the guy's name was Sanji, he had absolutely no reason to suspect he could be anything but a local. Well, maybe the blond hair and sea-like eyes should have been a hint.

The third time Zoro met his neighbour, the guy was on the phone. His blue shirt stretched on his back when he blocked the phone between his shoulder and his shin, needing his hand to write something on a piece of paper. Zoro did not had a hard time swallowing.

He was busy replacing the hinge on his door, broken by an overly enthusiastic Luffy, when something in Sanji's voice caught his attention. He frowned, forgetting about his task and concentrating on the conversation.

He blinked. The guy was speaking French. And he wasn't showing off, because there wasn't even a hint of accent on his voice. That was totally his native language.

(Zoro had taken up French in high school to show off, though. The teacher was hot as hell and had a lot to do in his will to get the best grades. He was now fluent and had had absolutely no occasion of using it since graduating. Until now.)

"Ta gueule, vieux schnock. Ma cuisine est largement meilleure que la tienne. Personne n'y résiste."

There was a muffled response and the cook's face turned slightly red.

Zoro stared blankly at his neighbour. Had he just been insulted and complimented in the same sentence? His brain took a few seconds to process. The guy had apparently been wooing him with French cooking since he moved in and he only figured it out now.

Slowly standing up, he walked to his neighbour's door and watched as Sanji turned to face him, a question on his face.

"Attend une seconde, le voisin est là," he said on the phone before lowering it. "Yes? Can I help you with something?"

"Je comprend le français," Zoro stated. "Tomorrow at eight? And the oeufs en meurette better be good."

It was the cook's turn to look like someone punched him in the face. He blushed furiously before stuffing the phone in his pocket, despite the angry protest of whoever was on the other side.

"You bet it's gonna be. Try to wear something nice for a change, dumbass."

"And try to remember I speak your shitty language, curly-brows. Apparently, I'm lucky I'm good looking?"

(the oeufs en meurette were the best thing Zoro had eaten in his entire life.)

Approximate translation:

"Ta gueule, vieux schnock. Ma cuisine est largement meilleure que la tienne. Personne n'y résiste."
Shut it, old fart. My cooking is way better than yours. No one can resist it.

"Pas ma faute si cet abruti n'est pas capable d'apprécier la véritable gastronomie. Ça doit venir de sa tronche de brocoli. Il a de la chance d'être beau, le con. Mais je suis loin d'avoir abandonné. Il finira par succomber au charme de mes oeufs en meurette."
It's not my fault if this moron can't appreciate real gastronomu. Must come from his broccoli face. Jackass' lucky he's good looking. But I'm far from giving up. He'll fall in love with my oeufs en meurette eventually.

"Attend une seconde, le voisin est là,"
Wait a sec, the neighbour's here.

Also, oeufs en meurette is my favourite dish in the whole world. It comes from my birthplace, Bourgogne. It's wine, onions and gibs, boiled for three hours. Then you break eggs in it and it cooks inside the wine. It's freaking amazing.