There was some kind of explosion in the building opposite, he said, which diners took in stride – it’s Black Death season, after all – until that the rats begin to fight for their lives. They emerged from the building and hurtled down the streets, several dozen of them, huge and scared, descending on the cute, cozy, sure dining sheds. They swarmed under and in hangars. Some people tried to lock the beasts outside as they rushed to the door. Others screamed into the streets, where other rats – panicked and moving quickly – invaded their ankles. Some of the rats stayed for days, seeking refuge in the hangars. “We still live in the first hangar,” said the waiter. “We leave her alone. Her name is Sally.