Linguini Ratatouille Novels & Stories

"Do you want to eat?" I tried to hide my smile as I walked to the kitchen and stood beside him. "Of course, Chef Jones." I teased him and he rolled his eyes. "So what are you making? What's for dinner? Carbonara? Bolognese? Olio?" Hunter smirked and looked over his shoulder. "Nope," he took one jar then added, "We are gonna have pesto linguine." I hated pesto. That was the only pasta sauce that I found disgusting. Instead of telling him exactly that, I faked a smile and said, "Yum."

He had been away from the house all day, and I had heard from Lola that he was busy with lots of meetings. "Thank you," I said. "Have you been working all day?" "You don't want to hear about that," he said, waving a hand at me. Lola brought our food in and set it down in front of us, and I tried my best to act as usual. "Wow," Soren said. "I can't remember the last time I had linguini with clam sauce. This is one of my favorite dishes, but the chef doesn't like to make it." I couldn't think of anything to say in response to that, so I took a bite, hiding my smile behind my fork.

By the time they started to eat, the storm had fully begun. It was raining heavily like Alfonso said it would. The dining table was filled with all sorts of delicacies, ranging from lobster, chicken scarpariello, Risotto alla Milanese, Braciole, and so on. Some that she did not know what their name was. They ate while having small discussions. The dinner felt intimate and warm. She realized that she loved gatherings like this. Maybe it was because she did not do stuff like that most time when she was younger.

It was nice to know Kathy supported her, although they just met. “Where do you want to go now, Miss Rosalind?” Luca asked. “I want to go to the local market, please?” Luca grinned, but he immediately drove the car to the place Rosalind mentioned. She chose some pastas as she wanted to cook the pasta for this evening. Then she added beef and chicken too. For the ingredients, Rosalind asked for bell pepper, some spices, mozzarella and parmesan cheese, ketchup and chili.

Yifa said while sitting down in front of Killian who only shrugged in response. "She started it but it doesn't matter. I don't want to talk about her." Killian said while grabbing the menu from the table and handing Yifa one. "Look through it, don't look at the price. Just get what you want." Killian said while looking through his own menu. Yifa stared at Killian for a few minutes before looking down at the menu and gulping nervously because the names were a little too complicated for her to understand. What the hell is a ratatouille? She can't even pronounce it right in her head.

I said happily and planted a soft but endearing kiss on her lips. “I love you, Vincenzo Serratore. And it feels so good to say your complete name. Like you said, we’re family.” As I had said, I ordered the table to be set and soon we were all seated around it. The cooks took turns with the treats. Bruschetta with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella cheese sprinkled with basil. Tuna salad with sweetcorn, snails pan fried in olive oil, fried zucchini stuffed with mozzarella and fresh anchovies.

The cream sauce came next—reduced stock, heavy cream, a whisper of white wine—simmering low to thicken without breaking. Halfway through, the contestant next to me—a tall guy with a buzz cut and a tattoo of a whisk on his forearm—leaned over, wiping sweat from his brow. “Hey, you got any curry powder? Mine’s gone missing, and this tagine needs a kick.” I glanced up, my knife pausing mid-chop on a bell pepper. “Curry? For tagine—bold move. Yeah, here, take a pinch.” I slid my jar his way, and he grinned, relieved. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. I’m Marco, by the way. First time here?” I nodded, stirring my ratatouille to let the tomatoes break down into a silky base. “Ava. Yeah, total newbie. Y

“You order then, Mr. Responsible.” Without missing a beat, Jules turned to the waiter. “We will have one bruschetta to share.” He looked toward Damien. “Mr. Carrington?” “Tagliata di manzo e roasted vegetables.” The waiter nodded before looking at Elena. “I will have saffron risotto with grilled sea bass.” “And for you, miss?” Maya sighed dramatically. “Seafood linguine, add pasta too.” She leaned toward Jules. “I still think we should have ordered everything.”

Julian arrived while I was clearing up. Eli looked up when the door opened and something in his face moved, relief and wariness combined, the expression of a child who had been monitoring a situation and was now receiving new data. "Hey, buddy," Julian said. "Hey Jules," Eli said. "Mum made pasta. The rigatoni kind. I decided it is the third best shape." "What are first and second?" Julian said, coming in, setting his bag down. "Spaghetti is first because of the slurp test," Eli said. "Pappardelle is second because it holds the sauce better. Rigatoni is third because it is sturdy."

He smiled with his thick french accent betraying his nice english tie. We returned his smile as he walked away. The food was beautiful, almost too beautiful to eat. Emily’s dish, a delicate plate of ratatouille, shimmered under the soft light. Thin slices of zucchini, eggplant, and tomato were artfully arranged in a spiral, all resting in a pool of vibrant tomato sauce. My own plate held a simple but elegant coq au vin. The chicken was slow-cooked in a rich red wine sauce, the tender meat falling off the bone, served alongside buttery mashed potatoes and crisp green beans.