Work Text:
Miles sat alone at The Hitching Post II’s bar, a familiar routine he had repeated countless times. Most of his visits here had been solo, but tonight was different. His guest of honor was missing. Last week, during Jack’s bachelor party, Jack had hooked up with Sandra Oh, who ended up breaking his nose when she discovered he was engaged. Jack had planned to stage a car accident to cover up his injury, but instead of rigging the car to crash driverless, he decided to drive it himself.
The medics declared Jack dead on the scene, and due to the bizarre nature of the death, the police kept Miles in town for a few days to rule out foul play. With the excitement behind him, Miles took his time returning home, dreading the reality he would soon face. Thankfully, Stephanie wasn’t working tonight; he wasn’t in the mood to explain the situation to her again.
Lost in thought, Miles sipped from a large glass of Merlot, trying to adjust to the upheaval in his life. It took him twenty minutes to notice the ball of fur floating in a glass of abandoned Chianti next to him, mistaking it for a dishrag at first.
Miles grabbed the bartender by the elbow as he walked by—a gesture that might have been too familiar for their relationship.
“Hey,” Miles said, pulling him in too close. “I think there’s a dead rat in that wine glass.”
The bartender went pale but for a reason Miles didn’t expect. He peered at the Chianti glass and then back at Miles. “Miles, that ain’t no ordinary rat.”
“You’re damn right it isn’t!” a voice from behind them shouted drunkenly.
Miles spun around, but the restaurant was nearly empty. “Down here.”
He looked at the rat in the Chianti, who was very much alive. The rat wore oversized sunglasses and a New York Yankees cap that had been taken off of a Babe Ruth bobblehead. He was lounging in the glass like it was a hot tub. Between his legs was a coffee stirring straw, which he sipped from leisurely.
Miles’ eyes widened. “You’re Remy the Rat! Five-star French chef and restaurateur! What are you doing here by yourself?”
“Former French restaurateur,” Remy replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Linguini and I are done. Haven’t you been following the news? Not that I expect you to, considering you don’t seem like the type who keeps up with current events.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Remy ignored the question. “I got a little too handsy with Linguini’s lady ‘slash’ sous-chef at Ratatouille. As time went on, she got a little handsy with me, too. He caught us in the walk-in freezer, and instead of confronting us, he handed me a notarized document saying I was out and walked away. What could I do? I wasn’t on the ownership papers. I’m just a rat for Chrissakes!” Remy took a long sip from the straw and hiccuped. Miles noticed some raisin-like pellets at the bottom of the Chianti glass. “I’ve been driving through Cali wine country, trying to find myself and a new opportunity. It’s taken longer because I’m driving a toy remote-controlled convertible.”
Miles was speechless. Remy continued, “To make matters worse, my family took Linguini’s side and now works at his restaurant. Linguini ain’t even French! That Mick’s mother was Irish, and he was raised in Dublin. He’s about as French as IHOP’s French toast.”
“Well, the ‘I’ in IHOP stands for ‘International,’” Miles pointed out. Remy raised his sunglasses and glared at him. Miles continued, “and I hear ‘Mick’ is considered racist now.”
“You ever been to my restaurant?” Remy asked.
“Not yet. As a divorced middle school English teacher and unpublished novelist, I can’t exactly afford a trip to Paris for a culinary tour.”
“Well, aren’t you a sad sack of shit,” Remy said, burping. “You’re here at San Ynez Valley’s best-kept secret with a fine Merlot. You must be quite the foodie.”
Miles wasn’t sure if Remy was sincere or mocking him. Remy climbed out of the wine glass, but fell belly-first onto the table. He left a trail of Chianti footprints as he moved to Miles’s glass, flipped an ashtray onto the table, and began sniffing the Merlot. Miles thought he heard him mumble “...everybody thinks they’re a goddamned writer these days,” but chose to pretend he hadn’t.”
After a thorough inspection, he said, “You’ve got the 2004 Shaner Merlot—excellent choice. You take your wine seriously.”
Miles slow-clapped. “Bravo, exceeding expectations even with your reputation.”
Remy rolled his eyes. “I’m going to make you an offer. We’ve both been screwed over by those we trusted. We need to stick together. I refuse to go back to being a washed-up rat. We’re going to take it to the next level.”
Miles finished his Merlot and said, “What do you have in mind?”
“I know I’ve just met you, but I’m going to make you an offer. I’m serious, I’m serious,” Remy drawled, his drunkenness becoming more apparent by the minute. “Guys like us, guys who have been fucked over by the people who said they cared about us, we gotta look out for each other. We ain’t gonna take this lying down! I refuse to go back to being the washed-up rat I was when I landed in Paris all those years ago! We, my friend, are going to take it to the next level.”
Miles tipped back the rest of his merlot and swallowed it down in a few gulps, not really taking what the rat had to say seriously. “What’d you have in mind?”
“I say, we go into business together. Hear me out,” Remy lifted his right paw up. “I always wanted to get into the wine business. I say we start our own boutique vineyard and attached fine-dining restaurant out here in the valley. It wouldn’t be your average dog and pony show, though. We’d make it real edgy. Appeal to guys like us, guys who read Fight Club and get the wrong message from it. We’d be the real bad boys of culinary society, we’d make Anthony Bourdain look like Julia Childs, God rest his soul.” “You’re drunk.” “I am not! I am. But that’s not important, I’m being totally serious.”
“I can’t exactly drop my work right now, I’m really broke right now and got to be back in the classroom next Wednesday.”
“You’d really go back to slapping rulers on little shits' desks when I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime? I knew you were a stick in the mud.” Remy hopped down on the floor and started out towards the exit. Miles was shocked and furious, feeling even more angry than when he dumped the spit bucket of wine on his head last week when they told him his book deal fell through again with Conundrum. He quickly caught up with Remy, picked him up by the scruff of his neck using just his index finger and thumb, walked him back to the bar, and dropped him on the table.
Remy grinned. “That’s just what I’m talking about! I don’t want some limp-dicked partner who will just let me pull him around by his short hairs and do what I say. Besides, you don’t have enough hair to let me do that anyways.”
“How do I know you’re serious?”
“Listen man, I’m on my last leg. I can totally fund this with the dough I have saved up, but if this thing falls through, I’m finished. I can totally financially back this one time, but even the slightest hiccup and I’ll have to file for bankruptcy. I can smell the desperation on you like I can smell the desperation on myself, and I can tell you’re hungry, horny, and ready to kill. THAT is what I want in a partner and sommelier in my final shot at getting back on top, and getting some kind of TV-MA Food Network American Chopper meets Chopped meets Californication late-night show.”
Miles stared blankly at the shelf of wine bottles behind the bar. “Meet me back here at eleven for brunch, and if I show, and you show, then we’ll make it happen.” Miles’ gaze went upwards towards the top shelf, where a 1961 Château Cheval Blanc seemed to loom over him. “Okay.”
“What did you say your name was?”
…
It took less than three years before they were on the cover of Rolling Stone, a closeup of Miles’ face wearing sunglasses and grinning viciously, a gold tooth shinning towards the center of his top row of teeth. In the photo, he held a rat trap up beside his head, with Remy’s tail caught in the snap and him dangling upside down and grinning too, a joint in one hand a white powder under the tip of his nose. The headline read, “The Most Dangerous F#*cking Duo in the Restaurant Game”.
If you flipped to the center of the magazine, it brought you to a double-paged photo of Miles beating the shit out of Emril Legassi, straddling him against the ground of the set of a Food Network cooking show. At this point in the fight, Miles had a fistfull of flour that he was throwing in Emril’s eyes, and Remy could be seen pulling out Emril’s ear hairs. The next page showed a picture of Remy on the red carpet with Jennifer Lawrence, not directly showing it but obviously with Remy’s paw on her ass. Another picture showed Remy sitting on Megan Fox’s shoulder on the sideline of a LA Laker’s basketball game.
From the article: If you find yourself at Miles’ and Remy’s San Ynez restaurant, Rat Bastard, on a Friday night, don’t be surprised if you find yourself waiting for a table for upwards of two hours. As for reservations, you can forget about that. “Reservations are for betas and squares. If you wanna be here, you’ll fucking be here. And if you deserve to eat here, you’ll fucking be here.” Once you find yourself at a table, you won’t be surprised to find the owners not only walking around the restaurant, but going from table to table. Sometimes they’ll talk to you, but most of the time they’ll talk at you, drink from your wine glass, and take a bite out of your entree, and walk away. “If they ain’t here for us, then fuck ‘em. There’s always a line of customers out the door until past closing time, it’s not like we’re hurting for approval,” Miles tells me, as he takes a long puff off of a cigar and gulps down 8 oz of his own The Rat’s Ass 2009 vintage merlot. “Besides, I get thirsty on the job, I see a glass of my own wine at a guest’s table, I’m gonna take a goddamn drink from it. After all, it’s literally got my name on the bottle.”
In his time away from the vineyard and restaurant, Miles has published two memoirs and a sommeliers guidebook, and gone on at least five different international book tours. Remy’s only been known for chasing celebrity women, having been with everyone from Taylor Swift to a social-security check-gathering Pamela Anderson. Despite his reputation, no allegations of misconduct have resulted from his lifestyle. An anonymous source reached out to me, saying ‘he’s an excellent lover, and very respectful inside the bedroom. Outside the bedroom, he’s a total rat bastard.”
Ever since Rat Bastard Vineyard and Restaurant opened its doors in 2007, it’s been non-stop action for the pair. Remy’s French cuisine background seems like a forgotten lifetime ago, and Miles’ life as a divorced English teacher seem like a fever dream to them now.
To us mortals, they’re the bad-boy rockstars of the culinary world. To themselves, they’re just a couple of Rat bastards.