"Tha' etouffee ain't even spicy. Yah' just used to raw merde." He insists, rubbing the crease of his eyebrows as he pushed the bowl towards you again after you'd rejected it.

He can't imagine Victor had a refined pallet when it came to cuisine. "Not rotten" was what Remy wagered the extent of Victor's merit as a cook ended at. And Remy's got no intention of letting you keep up with that diet, not when he can cook well enough to get compared to that dumb rat from the movie.

So he'd dragged you from your spot where you sat mulling in your room, sat you down at the counter, and began cooking. He let you taste things every now and then as well as peeling the shrimp, though the way your nose had wrinkled when the scent hit you, he couldn't imagine the task was as fun for you as it always proved to be for him.

You weren't a great sioux chef. You didn't listen occasionally and kept trying to snatch small portions to eat before it was done, but a quick smack to the back of your head or the threat of not giving you any of the finished dish had been enough to keep you in line for long enough.

But now you're sitting here, staring at him like he's tossed a bag of trash in his face after he slid the bowl towards you. You'd taken a cautious bite and promptly nearly spat it out, but Remy had all but dove over the counter to hold your mouth shut.

"Yah' don't spit out mah food. That's impoli. D'ya understand ya' animal?" He feels like he's scolding one of his cats, holding their muzzle shut after putting a sour pill in their mouth.

But after he'd forced you to swallow the one bite, you started glaring at him as you denied to take another bite. Remy's brow twitched. "I ain't cookin' ya anythin' else. Whateva' else you'll be eatin', you'll be makin' yerself." He groans in annoyance as you continue staring at him, seemingly unwavering in your resolve.