A man's own dinner is to himself so important that he cannot bring himself to believe that it is a matter utterly indifferent to every one else.

The guest will judge better of a feast than the cook

Obviously, I am the cook. The cook is the director. He arranges the menu, the seating order of the guests; he gives refuge to the lovers; he prepares the repast of the lover's body. The cook is a perfectionist and a rationalist, a portrait of myself.

He's a winner, he's a God damn sinner; when he dines I'm on the wrong side of the day.

The validity of the cook's work is to be found only in the mouths of those at her table; she needs their approbation, demands that they appreciate her dishes and call for second helpings; she is upset if they are not hungry, to the point that one wonders whether the fried potatoes are for her husband or her husband for the fried potatoes.

the man who has a favorite restaurant but not a favorite author. He’s picked out a favorite place to feed his body, but he doesn’t have a favorite place to feed his mind! One

God sends meat, and the Devil sends cooks.

He who makes a paradise of his bread makes a hell of his hunger.

God sends meat and the devil sends cooks.

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer’s corn; Men eat of it and die.

That clergyman soon becomes an object of contempt who being often asked out to dinner never refuses to go.

His meals were always punctual. Whether she cooked well or badly he did not know; it was a matter of total indifference to him. During his meals, which he ate at his writing desk, he was busy with important considerations. As a rule he would not have been able to say what precisely he had in his mouth. He reserved consciousness for real thoughts; they depend upon it; without consciousness, thoughts are unthinkable. Chewing and digestion happen of themselves.

I don't think I would be too comfortable with many of his compliments ... He's a butcher!" "More than that, my friend ... he is a warmaster. And that makes him a master butcher.

By shooting your cook you were refusing him permission to enter your house.