Ratatouille did a wonderful thing for my family. No, I’m afraid it did not stir my cooking urges. Still pretty much just do that ‘cuz I have to. Nope, better than that. It gave me an ally for Paris. As in, I dream of being there someday, and now I have a partner in crime. Unfortunately rather than my husband with whom I would most like to visit Paris, it’s my 7-year-old. Almost 8. He’s a teensy bit obsessed. You remember what it’s like when you’re a kid and you start to connect one thing to another, like when your parents listened to solid gold Saturday night and you recognized all your favorite commercials? He’s like that with Paris now. Whenever it’s mentioned on anything, “Ooh, I want to go to Paris! I heard they have great food there.” We just kind of ignore the fact that the same movie that told us Paris has great food (as if we didn’t know that) also implied that it’s quite possible our food will be prepared by literal street rats.
And while I’m on the subject, did you see No Reservations? (Katherine Zeta-Jones . . . that one guy whose in lots of stuff, but I can’t remember his name . . . .) This movie also glamorized life from a restaurant kitchen which fascinated me because it made me feel I was getting a peek behind the scenes in Hollywood – I mean, you just know some writer or producer somewhere made a comment about writing a screenplay in which the location was a restaurant kitchen, and some other producer was, like, at the next table or in the next stall – or possibly even at the same table! – only one of them works with animation and the other one works with modern day Grace Kellys. I think about these things because, frankly, I wish I’d been at the third table and could have gotten my name in for that role as the New York chef who gets to wear those coats and the chic little page-boy caps . . . . Ahhh. That’s a long way from Ratatouille, but it all ties in if you followed me.