That evening, the dining room rumbled with laughter and clanking silverware. The firefighters devoured the piperade, wiping their bowls with crusty bread. The rugby players attacked the boar’s embrace like it was a trophy. When the cast-iron skillets of ratatouille arrived—sizzling, golden-crusted, aromatic with thyme and garlic—Anton Ego paused.
Remy nodded proudly. He pointed at the kitchen’s wood-fire grill. Then he pointed at himself. Then he flexed his tiny arm. 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.” That evening, the dining room rumbled with laughter
He took a bite. Then another. Then he set down his fork, removed his glasses, and spoke to the empty chair across from him. Then he pointed at himself
“Ouch!” Linguini whispered. “What’s the idea?”