Linguini frowned. “Remy… this is just macho ratatouille.”
Chef Remy, the smallest (and furriest) culinary genius in Paris, stood on his customary perch atop Linguini’s chef hat. He tugged a single strand of hair. ratatouille male menu
Remy pointed a tiny paw at the printed specials. Then he crossed his arms and shook his head. He had seen the reservation list: twelve burly firefighters, three rugby players, and a food critic named Anton Ego who had recently declared that “vegetables are what food eats.” Linguini frowned
And that, Remy knew, was the most masculine thing in the kitchen. Remy pointed a tiny paw at the printed specials
From the pass, Remy watched Ego reach for a second lamb chop. He dipped his little chef’s hat, took a bow unseen, and went back to the stove.