It is a curious fact that no man likes to call himself a glutton, and yet each of us has in him a trace of gluttony, potential or actual. I cannot believe that there exists a single coherent human being who will not confess, at least to himself, that once or twice he has stuffed himself to bursting point on anything from quail financiere to flapjacks, for no other reason than the beastlike satisfaction of his belly.

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

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 complete lack of caution is perhaps one of the true signs of a real gourmet.

Probably no strychnine has sent as many husbands into their graves as mealtime scolding has, and nothing has driven more men into the arms of other women as the sound of a shrill whine at table.

It is all a question of weeding out what you yourself like best to do, so that you can live most agreeably in a world full of an increasing number of disagreeable surprises.

gastronomy is and always has been connected with its sister art of love.