When I think of Paris, I imagine cast-iron balustrades bordering the Métropolitan signs of the subways stations, wrought iron balconies, elegant cream-colored stonework, and wide boulevards lined with independent bookshops, cafés, and boulangeries.
The first time I heard the word, “ratatouille,” I was 14 years old and sitting on the cushioned movie theater seat, snug between my mom and my sister, watching the rat Remy come to life as an ambitious Parisian chef. I chose gummy bears and my sister, popcorn, and we sat next to each other to pass the snacks back and forth, enjoying both the salty crunchiness of the popcorn and the sweet chewiness of the candy. It was the perfect respite from the heat on the scorching July afternoon.
Other than the hour or so of Pixar-animated entertainment, the movie didn’t make much of an impression on my young-teen mind. In fact, I barely thought about the story or the food again until six years had passed and I was sitting on a wobbly white plastic stool in a tiny kitchen in Paris. Continue reading “a taste of Paris, featuring ratatouille”