In spite of my conviction that a group of deliberately assembled relatives can be one of the dullest, if not most dangerous, gatherings in the world, I am smugly foolhardly enough to have invited all my available family, more than once, to dine with me.

When we exist without thought or thanksgiving we are not men, but beasts.

Most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak.

A well-made Martini or Gibson, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.

In general, I think, human beings are happiest at table when they are very young, very much in love or very alone.

Digestion is one of the most delicately balanced of all human and perhaps angelic functions.

I honestly believe that everything I know about the writing of non-fiction (or writing) could be engraved on the head of a pin with a garden hoe.