Male Menu: Ratatouille

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.

“Ouch!” Linguini whispered. “What’s the idea?” ratatouille male menu

Linguini squinted at the notepad Remy had prepared. It read: 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. removed his glasses

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.