With a splash, I landed in some dishwater. I had to find a way out. There were humans everywhere! I spotted an open window across the kitchen and ran toward it. Inches from the window, I passed by the soup. I could have made it. But that soup smelled awful.

Gusteau appeared. “You know how to fix it,” he said. “This is your chance…”

He was right! I turned the heat down. Then I added new ingredients and water to the pot.

As I was adding some spices, I froze. The garbage boy was watching me, his eyes wide. I guess he’d never seen a rat cook before.

I sprinkled some more spices into the pot just as the chef called for the soup. Then I made a break for the window, but the garbage boy was too fast. He slammed a colander down over me. I was trapped. But at least I was hidden.

“Out of my way!” the chef shouted at the garbage boy. Then he saw a ladle in the boy’s hand. “How dare you cook in my kitchen?”

I pushed the colander toward the window as the chef yelled. Meanwhile, a waiter carried the soup out to the dining room…and served it to a famous food critic!

And guess what? You’re gonna love this.

“She liked the soup,” the waiter reported.

Someone liked my soup! My soup! Soup cooked by a rat. The only problem was that everyone thought the garbage boy had made it.

The chef didn’t care that the soup had been a hit. He wanted to fire the garbage boy because he was angry that the boy had cooked in the first place.

But a lady cook objected. “How can we claim to represent the name of Gusteau if we don’t uphold his most cherished belief?” she asked the chef.

“And what belief is that, Mademoiselle Tatou?” he replied.

“Anyone can cook,” she said.

As I moved toward the window, I overheard the other cooks agreeing with the lady. Skinner told Linguini he could keep his job, but he’d have to make the soup again.

“They think you might be a cook,” the chef told the boy. “I think you are a sneaky, overreaching little—rat! Raaaat!”

You might have guessed this, but that was when he spotted yours truly. I raced for the window, but the chef was chasing me with a mop. Before I knew it, he had me cornered.

“Linguini!” the chef yelled at the garbage boy. “Get something to trap it!”

Seconds later, I was inside a glass jar and Linguini had been ordered to take me away—far away—and dispose of me.

I did not like the sound of that.