Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.

Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat.

One martini is just right. Two martinis are too many. Three martinis are never enough.

For anyone addicted to reading commonplace books . . . finding a good new one is much like enduring a familiar recurrence of malaria, with fever, fits of shaking, strange dreams . . . .

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.

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.

When a man is small, he loves and hates food with a ferocity which soon dims. At six years old his very bowels will heave when such a dish as creamed carrots or cold tapioca appear before him.