Hors d'oeuvres have always a pathetic interest for me; they remind me of one's childhood that one goes through wondering what the next course is going to be like - and during the rest of the menu one wishes one had eaten more of the hors d'oeuvres.

You needn't tell me that a man who doesn't love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.

The cook was a good cook, as cooks go; and as cooks go, she went.

I believe I once considerably scandalized her by declaring that clear soup was a more important factor in life than a clear conscience.