It happened recently on Twitter: someone judged one of my restaurant reviews as “weirdly mean,” and in doing so, likened my work to perhaps the most feared and iconic fictional journalist of our time. “How Anton Ego of you Mr Sutton,” the user tweeted, referencing the slender, perpetually scarved food critic from Ratatouille, the animated classic about a rat who masters French cuisine and revives a struggling, once-famous restaurant. Standing in the rodent’s path to culinary triumph are a skeptical health inspector and, crucially, a highly discerning restaurant reviewer.
This isn’t the first instance of Ego’s name being thrown around online as a petty insult, a trend that mirrors current public sentiment where artists and their fans often lash out against critics. A quick browse on social media reveals people selectively quoting Ego’s famous words, “We thrive on negative criticism.” A food columnist from Chicago even used the character’s name as a derogatory verb, questioning on Twitter whether New York Times critic Pete Wells was being overly cynical to “Anton Ego” Guy Fieri’s now-closed Manhattan restaurant.
Considering the comparisons, being likened to the minor antagonist from an Oscar-winning Disney-Pixar film isn’t actually that bad. In the past, I’ve faced far more colorful online commentary, including being told to “deep fry in hell” and “dine with ISIS.”
However, these critics, and many Ratatouille enthusiasts, misunderstand Anton Ego. He isn’t the villain; he’s an unexpected hero. Yes, Ego’s office resembles a coffin, and he delivers lines like, “I love food. If I don’t love it; I don’t swallow.” Yet, this critic, and the institution of criticism itself, ultimately becomes a savior in the film. In the pivotal scene, Ego pens a review that not only rescues the rat-operated restaurant from financial ruin and obscurity, but also challenges the rigid conventions of fine dining. It’s a powerful defense of how constructive criticism can democratize the culinary world, fostering creativity and enriching the dining experience for everyone.
As a professional critic, my defense of a fellow critic, even a fictional one, and the art of criticism itself might seem self-serving. But allow me to assert that being called Ego isn’t an insult—it’s a compliment to any food critic.
Hollywood’s History of Misrepresenting Food Critics
Hollywood has a knack for turning unlikely figures into heroes, from adventurous archaeologists and eccentric historians to anxious office workers, activist shopkeepers, Russian house cleaners, and even a violent navy cook played by an actor known for his friendly relations with Vladimir Putin. However, food critics on screen are often relegated to the role of stereotypical, semi-villainous antagonists, foils to the film’s true protagonists. In Jon Favreau’s 2014 movie, Chef, a food blogger mocks the main character’s weight and emotional vulnerability as he serves Cuban sandwiches in Miami. In Burnt, an Evening Standard critic played by Uma Thurman boasts about shutting down “bad” restaurants with her reviews and greets Bradley Cooper’s chef character (with whom she had a past relationship) with a barbed, “one hoped you were dead.” And let’s not forget Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding, where her portrayal as a judgmental food critic foreshadows her deeply manipulative nature.
Anton Ego initially embodies this villain-critic archetype in Ratatouille. Voiced by Peter O’Toole with a chilling undertone and animated with a severe, almost coffin-like demeanor, Ego’s critiques are as sharp as daggers. His devastating initial review of Gusteau’s coincides with the chef’s death, possibly alluding to real-life tragedies in the culinary world. Gusteau’s reputation is further threatened by the scheming sous-chef Skinner, who resorts to serving cheap, frozen food.
The Transformative Power of Ratatouille: Ego’s Redemption
However, the narrative shifts when Ego tastes Remy’s ratatouille. This dish evokes powerful childhood memories, melting his icy exterior and prompting a profound and transformative review, which he delivers aloud:
“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.”
While I might debate the “thriving on negative criticism” and “risking very little” aspects – perhaps over expensive cocktails after a tasting menu – it’s crucial to pause here. Some, including a high-end restaurant that attempted to dismiss my review using Ego’s words, selectively quote this part of the speech, omitting the crucial continuation. Ego, in fact, has much more to say, revealing the true depth of his character and the essence of meaningful criticism:
“But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new: an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto, “Anyone can cook.” But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau’s, who is, in this critic’s opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau’s soon, hungry for more.”
Here, Ego provides a remarkably nuanced perspective on criticism, questioning his own profession to elevate its purpose. He champions the democratization of fine dining, suggesting that artistic brilliance can emerge from the most unexpected places. Implicitly, Ego’s review acknowledges that criticism can be a platform to confront issues of privilege and grapple with complex ideas about the value of art and its creators.
In essence, good criticism transcends mere judgment or consumer advice. It’s a space for learning and growth. This is the valuable lesson Ratatouille offers.
Criticism as Education: Beyond Taste-Making
“A lot of people don’t know what ‘critic’ means. They think it means, ‘a person who criticizes,’” wrote the late Roger Ebert in his Ratatouille-inspired essay from 2008. Ebert emphasizes that good reviewing extends beyond simplistic superlatives often used for promotional purposes. A good critic, he argues, “is a teacher,” not possessing all answers, but demonstrating “the process of finding your own answers.”
Ratatouille thoughtfully explores the critic and artist as informed educators, uniting Remy and Ego in their parallel journeys. In a touching scene about taste, Remy uses descriptive language to help a fellow rat appreciate the subtle nuances of a grape and cheese pairing, speaking not just to the rat, but to the audience, encouraging a deeper appreciation for culinary detail. Ego’s review becomes more than a plot device to save a restaurant; it shapes our understanding of Gusteau’s significance and the broader culinary landscape. He’s less a rigid Michelin inspector and more of a Greek chorus, explaining to a vast audience the importance of recognizing talent from unconventional backgrounds.
Film critic A.O. Scott, in his book Better Living Through Criticism, delves further into the Remy-Ego relationship, arguing they share a dedication to “the especially intense appreciation of something everyone else either takes for granted or enjoys in a casual, undisciplined way. Food.” Despite Gusteau’s apparent decline, Remy and Ego become essential in its revival.
The film subtly highlights other insightful aspects of the restaurant world. Ratatouille was ahead of its time, predating trends championed by chefs like Alain Passard, in presenting haute cuisine through a simple vegetable dish. Released during a period of meat-centric gastronomy, the film also anticipates contemporary concerns about culinary credit. The chef-owner at Gusteau’s insists he did none of the cooking when Ego arrives, and the critic waits to meet the actual cook. This foreshadows critical discussions about who deserves recognition and profit in the culinary world, shifting focus from celebrity chefs—the “Gods of Food”—towards the often-overlooked individuals (and animals) behind the dishes. Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential explored similar themes, but Ratatouille delivers these messages in a way accessible even to children.
The film’s ability to make complex issues about criticism engaging for both children and adults challenges us to move beyond passive consumption and reading. Perhaps Ratatouille‘s ultimate message is this: in a world saturated with superficial food advice from capsule reviews and arbitrary lists, Ego’s insightful, 238-word speech offers more substance in under two minutes than lengthy Michelin guides or Yelp reviews.
While these reflections on criticism might lack the dramatic flair of Julia Roberts delivering a snap culinary judgment, the enduring admiration for Ego’s speech, over a decade after the film’s release—unlike reactions to scenes from Burnt or My Best Friend’s Wedding—suggests audiences crave depth from restaurant critics, real or fictional. Anton Ego, while flawed, is undeniably cinema’s finest food critic. Call me Anton if you will—it’s high praise indeed.
