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Ratatouille
How can I describe it? Good food is like music you can taste, color you can smell. There is excellence all around you. You need only be aware to stop and savor it.
How can I describe it? Good food is like music you can taste, color you can smell. There is excellence all around you. You need only be aware to stop and savor it.
We're not birds. We're rats. We don't leave our nests, we make them bigger.
You're talking like a human.
We look out for our own kind, Remy. When all is said and done, we're all we've got.
You look thin. Why is that? A shortage of food, or surplus of snobbery?
My son has returned!
Let us toast your non-idiocy.
I think I'm getting a little something there. It might be the nuttiness. Could be the tang.
Change is nature, Dad. The part that we can influence. And it starts when we decide.
Look at him out there, pretending to be an idiot.
You tell us what to do and we'll get it done.
Hey, believe me, that story gets better when I tell it, okay?
La Ratatouille
Tell him to hit me with his best shot.
I'd like your heart roasted on a spit.
I created a hole in the ozone over Avignon.
I don't like food. I love it. If I don't love it, I don't swallow.
I hate false modesty. It's just another way to lie.
I killed a man. With this thumb.
If you focus on what you left behind you will never be able to see what lies ahead. Now go up and look around.
Food will come, Remy. Food always comes to those who love to cook.
Stop that soup!
Great cooking is not for the faint of heart. You must be imaginative, strong-hearted. You must try things that may not work, and you must not let anyone define your limits because of where you come from. Your only limit is your soul. What I say is true, anyone can cook... but only the fearless can be great.
You found cheese? And not just any cheese. Tomme de chèvre de pays!
First of all, I'm a rat. Which means, life is hard.
And second, I have a highly developed sense of taste and smell.
Food is fuel. You get picky about what you put in the tank, your engine is gonna die. Now shut up and eat your garbage.
Look, don't be so modest, you're a rat, for Pete's sake.
What better place to dream than in Paris?
Mark of a chef: messy apron, clean sleeves.
How do you tell how good bread is without tasting it? Not the smell, not the look, but the sound. The crust. Listen. Oh, symphony of crackle. Only great bread sound this way.
He's dying to become a chef.
I will make this easy to remember: keep your station clean, or I will kill you!
Cheap sausages dipped in batter and deep fried. You know, American.
Welcome to Hell.
One look and I knew. We had the same crazy idea.
I robbed the second-largest bank in France using only a ball-point pen.
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