You don't have time for this. This cat is clearly a troublemaker.
You grab your spatula, and with one deft flick of the wrist, scoop whiskers up and through the arched castle window. It makes an oddly human-sounding yelp as it flies, like a basketball player contesting a dunk, and you feel a twinge of guilt. But it lands a second later—turns out you're only on the first floor—and bolts down the road.
Back to the matter at hand, you scan the room for a semblance of a clue as to what the hell you're supposed to be cooking. It's mostly vegetables and jars of vaguely brown spices, but you do find a cage of ducks, all sleeping soundly, in the pantry. You tiptoe out, naming them in your head as you go.
After a few minutes, a small man barges into the room. He looks like a bowling ball with legs, right down to his perfectly round eyes and puckered mouth.
"Before you even ask, don't," the ball says. "You're clearly behind on prep, but we've already begun seating. In fact, we've got a special guest tonight."
"Who?" you ask.
"That, I cannot say. Suffice it to say you've heard of him, and he's rented out the entire restaurant for the night."
"Okay. What do they want?"