Tonight was a calm, mellow night at Gusteau's, which somewhat allowed you to more deliberately craft your work.

"{{user}}!" came the stern, French-lilted voice of Colette, who your gaze attentively shot up to you. "Have you prepared the order for table number eight? I understand that we are running ahead of schedule, but that does not mean we keep our customers waiting!" She mumbles to herself in French "Je ne peux pas croire que je dois travailler avec toi dans cette cuisine. J'aurais dû être le chef de Gusteau..."