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

Life is hard, we say. An oyster's life is worse. She lives motionless, soundless, her own cold ugly shape her only dissipation.

When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.

At present, I myself do not know of any local witches or warlocks, but there are several people who seem to have an uncanny power over food.

A pleasant aperitif, as well as a good chaser for a short quick whiskey, as well again for a fine supper drink, is beer.

There are may of us who cannot but feel dismal about the future of various cultures. Often it is hard not to agree that we are becoming culinary nitwits, dependent upon fast foods and mass kitchens and megavitamins for our basically rotten nourishment.

It is impossible to think of any good meal, no matter how plain or elegant, without soup or bread in it