It was always a wonderful day for Auguste when he could be in the kitchen. He said his hellos as he came in, looking around for the newest chef. Linguini and Colette seemed to be in the middle of something, so he wouldn't distract them just yet.

That was the difficult part of being in the kitchen, the nagging feeling that he was only in the way, more of an eccentric owner than the head chef.

Lucien caught his gaze as Auguste glanced across the kitchen. His old friend waved him over with a slight jerk of the head.

Auguste made his way over to Lucien, who moved over to let him join in on the prep work.

"Looking for the plongeur?" Lucien asked as he sharpened a knife.

"How's he doing this week?" Auguste asked.

"Tatou quit giving him death threats, so he must have learned something since last week."

Auguste smiled. Of course, Horst would approve of that method. "Good. Good."

"Mostly still a garbage boy during dinner hours, but none of the dishes he's worked on have been sent back," Lucien continued. "His soup's still a hit. You might want to think about getting it put on the menu."

Auguste nodded. It had been some time since they had added anything to the menu. It would be a good choice too. That garbage boy turned chef had been a good choice too. He could see that Linguini was turning out to be a breath of fresh air in this tired kitchen, and he was glad that his friend agreed.

"May I have a word?"

Auguste was brought out of his musings by Henri Skinner. The short man nodded towards the office. Auguste spared a glance at Lucien, who gave a minute nod.

"Of course," Auguste said, as he finished the bit that he was working on before the rest of the task back to Lucien and following Henri back to the office.

Though it was his office, the way Henri led Auguste in made it seem almost as though it was Henri's office.

"Yes?" Auguste asked, taking the chair at the desk. He was already tired of the conversation that they had yet to start.

It was... regretful that most of his conversations with Henri these days were difficult ones. Difficult and frustrating.

"We need to talk about the frozen foods," Henri said.

Of course. What else would Henri have to talk about with him? It was all they ever discussed since starting that forsaken frozen food line two years ago. It was his least favourite subject, and he doubted that this discussion would be any more productive than any of the others.

"What about the frozen food?" Auguste asked dejectedly.

"The foie gras packets are not selling, they want something else."

"Like what?"

"Something more... accessible. Like the microwave burritos."

Auguste hated the way that Henri's voice always went to that terrible sing-song tone whenever he brought up the microwave burritos.

"I hate selling microwave burritos," Auguste muttered.

His heart had never been in this frozen food line. It had been a desperate gamble that Henri had thought up two years back when everything was falling apart. Sign over his name and keep the restaurant afloat and not have to lay anyone off. The microwave burritos had been the opening of the line and it had just kept sliding from there.

"The microwave burritos sell," Henri countered sharply.

"The burritos are not Gusteau," he protested. "They are not even French!"

"They are convenient."

They had had this exact conversation dozens, hundreds, thousands of times in the last two years. He was so tired of hearing and saying the exact same things over and over again.

"The foie gras packets are just as convenient as the microwave burritos."

"But they don't sell," Henri countered blandly.

"At least they are Gusteau!" he shouted as he turned the chair around and surged to his feet.

There was a glimmer of terror in Henri's eyes, and Auguste sagged back on his feet. He hated this, hated all of this. Yelling at one of his closest friends, not being able to be in the kitchen, the state of the restaurant, the frozen food line... all of it. He was just so tired of everything.

"Sort of," he said quietly. "At least more than the burritos..."

It was all in such shambles, he sometimes wondered if he should just put it all away. Hang up the hat, close the restaurant, be done with everything.

He sat back down in the chair, it put less distance between him and Henri. It put them closer to eye level even if they never saw eye to eye on this.

"I don't know why I allowed my name to be used," Auguste sighed.

He knew, of course. To keep the restaurant going and the chefs paid. But at what price?

"Frozen food is not Gusteau," he finished.

"We've discussed this before," Henri said in a bored tone. "Gusteau is many things..."

And here they went again...

"Not microwave burritos!"

"Then what is Gusteau?" Henri asked, clearly exasperated.

"This restaurant is Gusteau!" he said sharply in Henri's direction.

The chefs, the creations, it was his and what he believed in.

"The only thing that is keeping this restaurant open... Is the microwave burritos!" Skinner yelled back at him, staring him in the eye.

Auguste was the first to break their eye contact.

"Okay," Auguste said tiredly. "Not foie gras packets... "

He racked his brain and came up with nothing. He had already given all he had to give to this ridiculous line, he had nothing left for it. He buried his face in his hands, biting the bullet, and said, "I suppose you have a suggestion?"

He didn't have to look up to see Henri's grin, he could hear it.

"Corn puppies."

Auguste groaned.

"Like corndogs," Henri continued, undeterred. "Only smaller. Bite-sized!" he added animatedly.

"What are corndogs?" Auguste dared to ask, sparing Henri a glance.

"Cheap sausages, coated in batter, and deep-fried," Henri said quickly. "You know... American."

Auguste cringed. This was only going from bad to worse.

"Well, we wouldn't actually call them 'Corn Puppies'," Henri continued. "We make them appear gourmet. Better meat, change the shape, give it a pretentious name, charge triple!"

Auguste sighed again. When did this become who he was, what he did, and what his name meant to people? From a grand, premier restaurant to the name of a frozen food label? It was nothing like it had been before.

"What happened to us, Henri?" he asked tiredly.

"We grew up," Henri said.

Author's Note:

So. I'm not dead, just extremely busy. College is very different from high school, there's a pandemic, and this chapter had been written for over a year and I just didn't get to it. Next chapter is also completed, but I make no promises as to when it will release other than it WILL happen sometime.