Finally – chapter six!! This is the longest chapter to boot: approxiamately nine and a half
pages long. 
On the whole, I am very pleased with how this chapter turned out. I especially had a fun
time developing the character of Colette, even though I have no idea what her real personality will be like in
the film.
Enjoy! 
CHAPTER SIX: KITCHENS AND
CATASTROPHES
“Watch your step, madame.” The grand duchess lifted up her velvet-coated dress
from under her feet as she descended elegantly from a fervently decorated carriage. On her right stood a
chauffeur, bowing deeply, decked in a black suit and a high silk hat for the occasion. To the madame’s left were
lined a troop of royal class vehicles: Volkeswagons and Fords wearing their best shades of midnight black. But in
front of the mistress, shinning brighter than even the glare of the cars’ headlights, was a brilliantly lit,
neon sight atop a high building, flashing the words “Gusteau’s!” amid an aray of guests filing into
the packed restaurant.
Two rows of benches were displayed before the cafe’, seated on a marble-stone
porch cast with the scent of numerous flower beds along the walkway.
"Right this way,
madame," the chauffeur declared to the duchess, the lady now wearing an expression of great interest and
ecstasy. Leading her past the benches – three of which were occupied – the chauffeur directed the duchess
towards a pair of swinging doors and intot he restaurant…
The mistress only had to walk five steps
down a red-carpeted floor before she was halted by a tall, mohagony desk bare of an occupant. But it wasn’t long
before a pretty lady with short black hair and chestnut-colored eyes came to greet her.
"Bonjour,
madame. Welcome to “Gusteau’s!”. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?" said the waitress, in a
very crisp but pleasant voice.
“May I present, the Grand Duchess Yvonne,” replied the chauffeur,
stepping out from behind the duchess in a brisk fashion. The waitress gazed, astonished, at her guest, who simply
smiled, nodding, and tossed the tail of her mind fur shawl over her shoulder.
"Oh…bienvenue,
madame. Bienvenue!" stumbled the waitress, shifting out and around the desk to demonstrate a well-rehearsed
curtsy, slipping out from under her suit, and gaining a few laughs from one of her fellow employees in the
process. The waitress glared at her one-man audience while straightening her uniform of wrinkles from the deep
curtsy, but the duchess merely chuckled softely. Her chauffeur, on the other hand, was not impressed…
"Please, miss. Conduct yourself in a respectable manner! This is the duchess of France to whom you
speak."
Looking taken aback, the waitress fretfully apologized to both the duchess and her chauffeur,
giving the latter a rather nasty glare which she hoped the mistress did not notice. However, the duchess raised
up a hand to silence the chauffeur before he could retaliate further.
"My chauffeur has never
approved of humor, mademoiselle. I, however, disagree," replied the duchess, bestowing up the waitress a
small smile.
Greatly relieved, the waitress returned the sentimental reply with a bried, understanding nod
before leading her guests to a great room filled with the most splendid decor the madame had ever laid eyes
on…
Numerous chandeliers hung from a ceiling that towered to a height of three stories, the second story
laiden with various child’s toys, treasures, and memorabilia. The third story contained a dining room whose
beauty and elegance didn’t even surpass that of the one on the first floor. Tables and chairs were spread across
it from one corner to the next, all evenly spaced so as to allow the waiters room to deliver meals by way of a
trolley. All but one of these tables were occupied, the only spare seats, the grand duchess could see, being
positioned at the very back of the room…right by a magnificent fountain with lush botanical jewels.
“Quite impressive,” exclaimed the duchess, eyes wide with pleasure.
"Yes. Quite. Please
pardon me if I do smell a rat, though," sniffed the chauffeur, clearly still displeased with the waitress’
attitute towards him.
"Oh, do cheer up, Toulouse. I’m sure this fine work of art would not be
standing here if any twitch or whisker of a mouse was seen," the duchess batted back. "Isn’t that
right, miss…"
“Colette, madame.”
“Colette… What a pretty name,” the
duchess responded, twinkling her eyes in favor of the waitress.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Colette
blushed. Toulouse frowned. Colette frowned back. Then, just to sweeten the deal… "And yes. I assure you
that if even one hair of a rat was found, he would never dare step in here again after we caught him." She
smirked in the direction of the chauffeur, but the duchess noticed that Colette seemed a little tense when she
said that.
“I still say I smell a rat,” the chauffeur said again.
"Yes – so do
I," replied Colette.
"Well, that’s all in good time. However, it would please me if I could find
a menu, miss Colette…," said the duchess, braking up the argument.
Colette left and returned with
two menus, shooting the chauffeur one last glare before turning tail to aid the call of another customer.
“Miss lady? Miss lady?” a young girl in pigtails called.
"Well hello, petite
fleur. What may I do for you?" Colette asked, bending down to speak to the girl. The girl lowered her voice
to a whisper and cupped one of her miniscule hands around Colette’s left ear.
"Have you seen any
rats around here?"
Colette’s eyes popped. As surprised as she was that the girl had overheard the
previous conversation, she was at least grateful that the little eavesdropper had been thoughtful enough to keep
her voice down concerning the matter. Even so, it took Colette at least ten seconds to think up a suitable
answer.
“Well…not yet…” The girl stared at Colette. "But there will be if you draw
one." And with that, Colette pulled a spare coloring book and some crayons out from behind her back.
“Wow! Thank you, ma’am. How did you do that?”
“Magic,” Colette smiled, fixing her
pocket-filled apron the right way around, from back to front, as she did so…before slipping off into one of the
many kitchens.
“Heeey, there she is! Come on , everyone. Roll out the carpet!”
A
cranberry red carpet was uncerremoniously thrown at Colette’s feet as she materialized into kitched number one,
one of the busiest and, Colette thought, the rowdiest of them all.
"Give her a bow – come on! She’s
part royalty now…"
“Try 1/16, Jacques,” Colette smiled sarcastically, untying her apron
and hanging it on one of three wall hooks. “She barely even touched me, much less talked to me.”
“Aww…come on, Clochette…,” teased Jacques.
"Please don’t call me that, Jacques. Do I
look like a cheese to you?" said Colette, swinging around, arms crossed, to glare at the guys, all of whom
were looking as if they were on the verge of choking from laughter.
"No, but you sure smell like
one!" Jacques said, as the room burst into a tantalizing fit of laughter. Colette just stood there, rolling
her eyes at the spaghetti encrusted ceiling.
“Would you like some butter with that cheese?”
Colette mocked.
“Sure,” said one of the guys, “Just don’t cut it!”
“Hahahahaha!” laughed the workers. Colette retained her noncommittal posture, unconvinced, with one
eyebrow raised and her arms still crossed in an undignified fashion.
Two minutes later, exhausted and
unable to stand standing in the comedy club any longer, Colette left her fellow coworkers in the kitchen, all of
them still in hysterics and laughing their heads off like a pack of wild hyenas. Although, Colette couldn’t help
but chuckle to herself a little when she had walked out of that kitchen…
Leaning against a wall
that overlooked the room in which the duchess and her chauffeur sat – the chauffeur, morever, muttering
suspiciously to the madame – , Colette watched the guests talking fluently to each other in French. Slowly, she
began to hum quietly to herself, thinking deep thoughts. It had been five years ago, exactly five years to the
day, that she had been hired here. Five long, uneventful, sarcastic years. Had she not needed the cash so badly,
she probably would be in Manhattan somwhere – sipping a pina’ colada or kicking sand out from beneath her toes.
But no. That future of hers was already long gone – it had taken a trip of its own into the past.
Retrieving it, she told herself, would be foolish; her conscious made sure to tell her that. Slapping herself in
the fact, Colette walked off to answer the hungry call of yet another customer…
At least half an
hour passed before Colette realized that two things were wrong…
First of all, she had neglected to adorn
her apron the whole time. Unfortunately, by the time she retrieved it, she found that the guys had drawn a rather
bad-sketched picture of a clochette on the back – colored by markers, from the looks of it.
“Well…two can play that game,” Colette had muttered to herself once out of earshot of the others,
untying her apron in a flourish and setting off in the direction of the staffroom. "The first thing I’m
gonna do is call --"
“–Colette!” That was the second thing: no sooner had she decided to
contact the boss when her words were cut short by Gusteau himself, the head man and king of “castle”,
as he often like to call his restaurant.
“Oh no…,” Colette muttered. As much as she liked
Gusteau, she had to admit that being his employee did have its disadvantages. Gusteau was a jolly, good-natured
fellow with a big heart and an even pudgier profile. He often thought of his employees as miniature versions of
himself: kind, hard-working, and eager to please; however, Colette could name a select few who would disagree
with that statement. Gusteau often had the habit of assigning Colette to carry out the night shifts, something
that Colette absolutely despised, but was too kind to admit it. And sure enough…
"Colette, my dear!
How very fortunate of me – I thought I would never find you. Where were you hiding, my dear?"
“Oh…umm, I was in the kitchens…,” Colette muttered politely, smiling but rubbing her forehead at
the same time. She’d been working so hard the past seven hours she hadn’t noticed the throbbing headache that
had been slowly creeping upon her, until now.
“But, my dear, you look tired,” Gusteau
sympathized, looking worried.
Colette looked at him as if to say, “Ya’ think?” However, she
decided against saying it outright.
"Well, I’ve been working for seven hours straight, sir. I’m
just a little bit tired – it’s nothing serious." Colette felt like kicking herself for telling him a
downright lie; she knew that she would regret it later.
"Oh…well then, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind
taking the night shift, right, my dear?"
“What? But…but I-”
"I’m sorry, my
dear," Gusteau cut her off again, “But I have my own troubles at the moment.” He sighed. "It
appears as if my restaurant’s ratings have been decreasing. I’m losing all my customers! I fear that…that
this grand masterpiece is going down the tubes!" Gusteau sighed again, exasperated. Colette let out a silent
snort that, thankfully, Gusteau didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, you could have fooled me, sir,”
she said, taking a quick glance at the bustling, over-crowded vacinity. Even as she spoke, a clatter of dishes
could be heard in the backround, indicating that somebody had broken another plate or two. But Gusteau often
worried about little things like the changes in weather or a slight decrease in his restaurant’s ratings.
Nothing much for her to worry about…
"Ohh…tisk tisk, my dear. That attitude won’t get you far,
I’m afraid. Come to think of it, it won’t do me any good to fret about it either." He glanced at his
watch, ticking onto eight-thirty, by the looks of it. "Oh – I have to go! Thank you, Colette, and don’t
let Linguini brake any of the dishes again!" And with that brisk exit, he was off, just as a couple more
dishes could be heard smashing into the floor in the backround. Colette, meanwhile, looked thoughtful…
“Linguini. Hmm…”
“Colette!! Get in here! He did it again!” called a distinct voice
from the first kitchen.
"I did nothing, you fool! You give me your ingrate of a tool and it blows
everything up!" responded a second, harsher voice. Meanwhile, a thick stream of smoke was beginning to crawl
its way out of the kitchen door and into the main diner, alerting the guests and everyone else in the vacinity,
causing the chefs scattered around the dinning rooms to calm down the panicking customers. Colette sighed.
“I’m coming, Skinner. I’m coming. Hold your horses…”
Skinner. His real name was Laramee
Granger, but no one who knew him ever called him that. Skinner had a good reason to be christened that particular
nickname; he was as reckless as a loose baboon and as liable to explode as a ticking bomb at its peak. He was
also quite infamous for his tendency to cut whatever came within chopping range of his knife; hence, it was never
a mystery as to why most considered him to be rather intimidating. However, it was a mystery as to why Gusteau
hired him in the first place. But this didn’t stop Skinner from being any more grateful, or grateful at all, for
that matter. Everyone who worked at the cafe’ knew better than to get closer than three feet to Skinner, unless
they were Linguini or Colette, both of whom had been working at the restaurant almost as long as Skinner had. So,
understandably, it was with great regret that Colette stomped into the smoke-chocked kitchen, untied apron still
in hand.
“Now what?” flamed Colette, already quite annoyed due to the change of plan
concerning her shift.
“Umm… Umm…,” stuttered Pierre, one of the chefs, pointing in the
direction of a large stove against a wall. Colette took one, long look at the stove – which was quite difficult
due to the excessive amount of fumes – before inhaling a great gasp of hair and rushing towards a squat figure
positioned in front of the blazing contraption. There stood a diminuative little man with black hair, black eyes,
and an equally blackened and annoyed expression. He did, indeed, look like an oversized primate; at first glance,
one would probably also say that he was shaped a bit like a triangle, with a waist as the base and his head as
the tip. Linguini often called him a “deranged monkey”. Skinner, on the other hand, wasn’t too fond of
the name.
“Vous?! What are you doing here?!!” Skinner said angrily.
"Moi. And I’m
here to save your life, unless you have a problem with that," Colette replied sourly, coughing from the
clouds of smoke that filled the kitchen.
"Cut the comedy, mademoiselle – I’m on the verge of using
this knife," Skinner said, pointing a very large, very pointy-looking cutting knife at his fellow employees,
all of whom automatically flew back a couple of steps. It was common knowledge that Skinner carried this
particular knife wherever he went.
“Just let me turn off this firey inferno and --”
For
the third time that night, Colette was cut off.
"No! I slaved five hours over this masterpiece, and
you --"
“-- and it looks like it’s coming along nicely,” interrupted Colette, glad to cut
someone else off for a change. "Give it a few more hours and you might just be able to pull off a fireworks
display…"
“Oh, shut up. Just fix it!” Skinner shouted, finally admitting defeat.
“My pleasure.” The one thing that Colette really seemed to pride herself on was the fact that she had
the ability to be calm in a crisis.
It wasn’t the time Colette spent fixing Skinner’s little dilemma
– which turned out to be a steaming chicking and a couple of burnt potatoes – that upset her in the end; it was
the fact that, after all her hard-working, she was once again required to take the night shift. Forced, more like
it. Unbeknownst to Gusteau, however, poor Colette had made up her mind to take a different route…
Ding
ding! The sound of a bicycle bell sounded shrilly through the night as Colette stepped out the back door of the
cafe’. Gazing up at the twinkling stars above, she wouldn’t have been surprised if they had decided to play a
few tunes of their own on this beautiful night. She only wished she herself had enough pep to do the same.
In the distance, beyond a pair of apple trees and many brightly-lit shops, stood the Eiffel Tower, illuminated
against a blackened sky by its astounding beauty almost as much as the lights that decorated it from speared-top
to steel-plated bottom. Even as she gazed at an entourage of tourists taking snapshots of the wonderous sight, a
jet of water shot out from the long, rectangular-shaped pool at the base of the tower, succeeded by another, and
yet another, until the miniscule lake was flanked by two lines of water jets, one on each side, like a dozen
soldiers standing guard over a steaple-shaped castle.
Colette sighed, lost in thought, until the distant
call of the bicycle bell jerked her back to reality.
Ding ding! Ding ding ding.
"Pff… Here
he comes…," Colette said to herself.
Ding ding ding!
“Three…two…one…”
“Hi, Colette!” a voice called from somewhere. “Hey, Colette – over here! On the bridge!”
Colette swiveled around to her right, where an arched bridge stood stretching out to serve as a road.
However, Colette was focussing her gaze, not on the bridge itself, but on a curly-haired boy with freckles, a
triagular-shaped, white hat, and a rather goofy expression. By the looks of him, he couldn’t have been older
than seventeen at the most. One might have taken him for a pizza delivery boy at first glance if it hadn’t been
for the hat and a little rectagular tag pinned to his shirt bearing the title “Restaurant Garbage Boy”
in golden letters.
“Hey, Colette! Guess what?” Linguini asked her excitedly, rolling down the
hill on a little red bicycle.
“Chicken butt?” Colette responded in the most monotonous tone she
could utter.
“Ha! Good one…,” Linguini laughed, clearly having said the previous question just
to hear her say that. Colette simply stood there, gazing at him with an air of great annoyance. Still, she
couldn’t help from keeping a crinkle of a smirk from escaping her lips.
“What?” Linguini asked,
still surpressing a couple of giggles.
“Ahh…forget about it,” Colette said, waving her hands
impatiently and dropping her forlorn posture.
“Come on. At least give me a hint?” Linguini asked
in a comforting tone, parking his bike against a nearby fountain.
“Skinner,” the other
responded, sounded frustrated.
“Oh, that old monkey?”
“Try ferocious tiger,”
Colette suggested. "He would have burned down the entire restaurant if they guys hadn’t called me in at the
last possible second."
"Hey, look on the bright side! You could have had to work the night
shift!" Linguini giggled, not realizing that his attempt to cheer Colette up only made things worse.
However, one good, long, piercing glare was all Linguini needed to get the hint. "Oh. You don’t
mean…"
Colette nodded a silent reply.
“Oh. Well…nice seeing ya’!” Linguini said
quickly, noticing that all-too-familiar twinkle in Colette’s eyes. But he hadn’t gone two paces before he felt
the collar of his shirt being pulled back, choking him in the process.
"Hey…umm. Linguini? Do you
think you could --"
“No! No, no, no, I won’t do it!” Linguini protested, throwing her
clutching fingers off his shirt and crossing his arms in indignation.
"I’ll give you eight
euros," Colette pushed him. Linguini cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Ten.”
“Well…,” said Linguini, “I was thinking more like twenty, but…”
“Deal!”
Colette agreed, pulling out a little brown and purple wallet as she said so.
"But…but. I-I didn’t
say…," Linguini stuttered.
“Thanks, Linguini,” she said, slapping twenty, crisp euros
into Linguini’s hands.
“But I…!”
“Have fun!” And with that, Colette flew off
like a pidgeon in mating season, almost tripping over a misplaced rock in her haste to get to a nearby plaza.
She was almost out of eyeshot before Linguini heard his cell phone ring in alarm. Pulling it out, he read
the private message on the screen: “Sucker!” Linguini glared in the direction of Colette.
“Cheater!” he yelled back, earning a couple of disapproving stares from passerby.
“‘Have fun’,” Linguini mocked angrily, quoting Colette’s last departing words.
Parking his
bicycle next to a collection of overflowing trash bins, Linguini took a quick look around his post before
consulting a very dirty, very forlorn looking broom leaning against the brick wall of the cafe’. The poor broom
had been battered up so much, in fact, that it almost looked like a giant, splintered stick, full of holes and on
the brink of snapping clean in two. Despite its untasteful appearance, however, Linguini was quite fond of his
broom; so fond, in fact, that he had taken to carving his initials – L.R. – in it. Colette had even been
tease-happy enough to ask Linguini if he he’d named it, to which he said the same thing he always said:
“It’s not just an “it”! It’s a “she”…”
Linguini was just about to start
his garbage and janitor duties, when the back door banged open with the force of a charging rhino by Skinner, and
at exactly nine o’clock…according to a nearby clock tower, which chimed on the hour.
"Where is
she?! Wheeere…is she??!" yelled Skinner clearly furious and completely oblivious to Linguini, who had been
standing just inches away from the door when it had exploded and was now sprawled on the dust-eaten ground,
looking absolutely terrified.
“You!!” Skinner yelled.
“Ah! M-Me…?” Linguini
asked stupidly, shuddering from an overload of intimidation. “Wha-Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!” he
said, putting his hands up in the air as if under arrest.
“Where…”
Linguini cringed.
“…is…”
Skinner took a step closer to Linguini.
“…she?” Skinner
steamed, putting an emphasis on every syllable.
“Wh-Who?”
"The girl, you idiot! The
girl!!"
“Colette?”
“Oui! She destroyed my kitchen!” Skinner screamed,
taking another, dangerously close step towards Linguini. A trio of heads popped out from behind the engraged
little man, all of whom were wearing an expression of great curiousity.
"Hey, Linguini! Did she give
you the boot?" called Pierre, smiling delightedly now that he knew what was going on.
"You stay
out of this, you ingrates!" Skinner yelled, swiveling around to screamin indignantly at the men.
“What seems to be the trouble?” boomed a familiar voice from the kitchen.
"All the men
gasped as they looked up, wide-eyed, to come face-to-face with the head man himself.
But the tension died
down as quickly as it had come once the workers realized that Gusteau was smiling. Instantly, all the men began
voicing their opinions and concerns at once…
“…wrecked my kitchen, monseur!”
"I
didn’t mean to come in so late! I-I…"
"…I think Robespierre burned another pheasant,
boss."
“It wasn’t my fault she destroyed the idiot bird!”
"Hey, we wouldn’t
take a leaf out of your book even if – "
"-- if you’d all just let me get my mop before the sun
comes up, I’d --"
"Stop! Stop stop. Please, gentlemen. Contain yourselves! You should all be
getting along like cats and tuna. Like carrots and peas. Like…like…" Gusteau stuttered, silencing the
raging crowd.
“…peanut butter and jelly?” Linguini suggested tentatively, finishing the
sentence for him.
“Yes! Yes, thank you, Linguini,” Gusteau complimented him kindly. Linguini
smiled bashfully.
“Alright, gentlemen. I hope that solves everything!” Gusteau boomed happily,
clapping his hands together; although, from the looks of it, it hadn’t – Skinner, at least, was still glaring
at his fellow employees as if he desired to give them each a death wish. Gusteau seemed to have finally noticed,
however, for he said, “Closing time in five minutes, gents! Pack your bags.”
And with that, he
left the kitchen. It was only when he was out of earshot that all the guys – except for Skinner and Linguini –
let out a great “whoop!” of delight.
"I dunno why you guys hate cooking so much. I think
it’s kinda fun…," Linguini said.
“Fun?” asked Pierre, surprised. All the rest of the men
around him had turned to go. “I call it torture. I only do it for the dough…”
Linguini glared
at him, as if waiting for him to finish the sentence.
“Ha! Alright, and the girls,” Pierre
chuckled, reading Linguini’s expression.
“Is that all you guys think about?” Linguini
questioned him, turning his palms upward and shrugging his shoulders.
“Mmm…yeah. Pretty much!”
"But there’s more to cooking than that. Much more! Like…like how you have to time everything just
right, or…or how you get to taste-test your dishes before you serve them. Or how you can make up your own
recipes and then win awards for them and stuff. It’s just…sooo…cool!"
"Yeah…sure. So why
aren’t you a cook then, genious?" Pierre asked him.
“Umm…well I…” Linguini faltered,
wondering the exact same thing himself.
"Uh-huh. Listen pal, if I were you I’d stick to the job you
have right now. It fits you better. Plus it’s alot easier than baking pies, I’ll tell you that right
now…"
“Hey, Pierre? Lights out!” called one of the cooks.
"Alright, I’m
coming! Hey, cheer up, old pal. You’ve got a good career, er…nice friends, and a babe of a
girlfriend."
“Wha… Colette? But she’s not my --”
“Yeah. Uh-huh,” Pierre
cut him off, smirking. “What I’m saying is: what more could you want?”
“Pierre!”
yelled one of the men again.
"Oui, oui! Listen, you’re not a complete loser. Just reach for the
stars if you have to. And if you can’t reach the stars, well…then go for the pennies on ground," Pierre
teased. Linguini smiled, a little happier. “Well, see ya’ later, buddy…” Pierre said, turning to go.
“Thanks, Pierre,” Linguini called after him. Pierre simply responded with a "thumbs
up".
But Linguini had to admit that he had always felt as if his current job wasn’t all he had
expected. Not to mention, his friend count wasn’t nearly as high as Pierre had made it sound. Indeed, the only
friend he really did have was Colette, and even she teased him about his cooking obsession at times.
Looking up at the stars that night, Linguini truely wondered if he would ever find a real friend within that city
he lived in – a true friend. Someone that would notice him as more than just a regular old garbage boy on the
streets. What he didn’t notice where a couple of shadows slipping out from beneath a grate behind him, and
running into the kitchen a warp speed…
