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“My God! A talking cat!”
The woman with the imposing hair is staring at Yzma in utter horror while she rolls her eyes and balances the heavy tray in her paw. “How shocking. Did you know that llamas talk as well?”
She recoiled. “I was told that this is an establishment of good grace and breeding.”
Yzma rolled her eyes. “KRONK. Get the woman a number twelve! No onions!” She sat in the booth. “If you want good grace and breeding, you’ll have to go to Anga’s Mud Hut. It’s the best beauty parlor in South America…”
“Uh,” Kronk said, peeking out of the service window from the kitchen. “How does she feel about radishes?
The woman pursed her lips. “I suppose I’ll allow it.” Then, to the cat, “is that how you keep your claws so…well-polished?”
“Fifty percent of it’s nature, the other fifty, hard work. I do have some secrets I’d be glad to share…”
In spite of herself, Lady Tremaine leaned a little closer, listening to the cat’s advice.