Duck Soup Quotes

I could dance with you till the cows come home. Better still, I'll dance with the cows and you come home." Groucho Marx was never one to pass up an opportunity for a play on words and this occurs in his dialogue of the 1933 film Duck Soup:

Clear? Huh! Why a four-year-old child could understand this report! Run out and find me a four-year-old child, I can't make head or tail of it.

My grandma knitted my pants, while my grandpa was running in them. That's how I learned to dance like slow-cooked Duck Soup.

I would give you my grandma’s slow-knitted Duck Soup dance-routine recipe, but my grandpa sold it to Roger Bannister for three minutes and 59 seconds. I think he could have gotten 3:58 for it, if he’d have just gone the extra mile.

When I make duck soup, I add an extra pinch of Simply Red’s hit song “Holding Back The Years.” It makes a better emulsifier than peeled carrots.

My love is a dandelion in a tornado, and hers is a lit birthday candle in a hurricane. That's why my Duck Soup has that slight taste of WindFlower.

I dance like my legs are made of Jell-O. I know, exotic and romantic, right? But my dancing also now comes in Duck Soup Flavor, and is FOR SALE in small, medium, and buffet-style.

Water-flavored lollipops that flow upwards on a stick, that’s what cats want. I would make that, but I’m too busy making duck soup that’s so advanced I got the formula from the year 2244.

All the funny faces I could possibly make I've already made, and I did them all while tasting her cooking. She made food fit for a contortionist, and I'm glad I never gave her my recipe for duck soup.

Who would you rather buy your Duck Soup from, me or some other guy? OK fine, but what if that other guy is SOLD OUT? Then what? What do you mean you'll just go to Popeyes for a Spicy Chicken Sandwich?!

She told me she was in pain, because she just had her ankle replaced. I said, “With what, a wheel?” Then I told her that hot duck soup is best served frozen, and that I've always wanted to ride a unicycle.

If I had the gift of flight, would you try to turn me into duck soup?

If you like how jazz music sounds, you'll love how it tastes. My duck soup now comes in trumpet-solo flavor. You don't have to curl weights, because this is already pure Armstrong.

Don't let the duck soup I made you get cold. It's frozen now, and on a stick, so you'd better lick it while it tastes like strawberries.

Sometimes my duck soup tastes like melted saxophone jazz, only more metallic. That's why I spice it up with trombone solo in liquid format.

Is there anything more romantic than dancing? I mean, besides sitting alone on the sofa reading Nicholas Sparks and eating Duck Soup?

Before playing dodgeball, eat a package of Not Getting Hit. Now available in Duck Soup Flavor!

I chug duck soup like a giraffe that has a tornado for a neck. I’m sure you can relate. I've captured the whole experience in my newest gender-gradient fragrance that has so many notes I call it Liquid Saxophone Romance.

Why is there no saxophone-flavored toothpaste? Or music that can successfully fight Gingivitis? Next time, why not try pouring hot duck soup in ice-cube trays and freezing it so you can serve it in glasses at your birthday party?

I'd probably love the sound that's made when an air guitarist gets struck by lightning while performing. I'd use that sizzle to flavor my Duck Soup. Of course, I'm open to seasoning my Duck Soup with other sounds, like Track # 3 from U2's classic 1987 hit album "The Joshua Tree." Though I might have to charge an additional $19.95 for such an exotic flavor.

Everybody loves duck-soup-flavored ice cream. 10,000 hours of swimming go into each scoop!

A can of tomato soup has many uses. One of them is as a projectile through a window. Next time, buy some Condensed Duck Juice.

It is as difficult for most poor people to truly believe that they could someday escape poverty as it is for most wealthy people to truly believe that their wealth could someday escape them.

A brick could be used like a duck could be used like a cat. My duck soup is meowing to be manhandled by a construction worker.


Cars have run on gasoline for over a century. It’s time we get advanced and start powering them with Duck Soup.

I dance like a rodeo tornado, and I make duck soup with extra feathers. To make it taste more authentic, you should try drinking it out of a dusty cowboy boot.

Before I serve you duck soup, I'll serve you salad. Some people like salad dressing, but not me. I prefer salad undressing, because being a voyeur adds spice to the dinner.

Your dance moves should be fluid, like Duck Soup. Right now when you buy my Romance In Motion lessons, you get FREE refills.

If you're going to get murdered, what better place for it to happen than in a cemetery? It's like my grandpappy always says: "You can't make coffee out of duck soup.

Sometimes I make bird sounds while I swim. And sometimes I make duck soup.

I spilled duck soup all over my brown shoes, but you can't tell, because they're brown shoes. That's what makes them so drinkable. I'm NOW offering FREE refills to qualified customers.

I make my Duck Soup Milkshakes by hand, the same way I make my handshakes. Just kidding—my hello, nice-to-meet-yous are all store-bought at Walmart and translated by Google. 你好，很高興認識你.

For those with a math allergy, my duck soup may contain Algebra. 2X=2, solve for X, may cause an extreme reaction. Ask your doctor if BearPaw Duck Farm's SwimmingBird Soup is right for you.

BearPaw Duck Farm is prepared for famine, and we actually sell Leather Soup. It's flavored like shoes from 1933, and if you close your eyes while you slurp, you can taste my great grandpa walking around in them.

If you string gem-like words together, you have a Poetry Necklace. I’m now selling decorative I Love Yous for just under $19.96 ($19.95, to be precise). They taste great in your mouth like duck soup in your ears.

She said she loved me, and I believed her, because she was looking directly at another man when she said it. It's the extra romance that gives my Duck Soup the flavor that sticks in your mouth for weeks, if not years.

I once saw a moat bicycling around a castle. It was being chased by a soggy giraffe that had a tornado for a neck. I was on the overlooking grassy hill, selling lasagna-free duck soup by the slice to tourists from Nebraska.

Mr. Cuddleswithbubbles just asked me if I could make a soapy duck soup that’s scented like a Boxcar Willie song, to capture that classic 1991 Branson nostalgia. I’ll try, but I’m not sure if I have that much cactus extract.

I dance like a dead man rolling out of a coffin, and that's also how Campbell's tastes. But if you fill up a thermos with my Duck Soup, it might help you win the marathon at the next Olympics. I'd like to sponsor your performance.

People pay a lot of fake money for old wine bottles filled with mystery fluid that they haven’t even tasted because it’s centuries old. So, I’m willing to bet people would spend even more fiat currency for new wine bottles filled with duck soup.

We can’t meet at the restaurant Monday because they are closed Mondays. I wish Mondays were closed and the restaurant was open. Or we could meet somewhere in the middle, like ajar, which is OpenClosed. That reminds me: Duck Soup goes best in a jar.

I now sell Duck Soup in three bowl sizes: Medium, Large, and Extra Large. Sure, the Medium has been made the Small, in theory, because it has the least quantity per serving, a simple labeling issue, but my nametag says Bob, which is the ideal name for dyslexics to read.

The pizza at Brick Oven tastes like that classic line from that famous murder mystery movie “Rambo,” where Nicholas Cage rips off his tuxedo and says, “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no bowl of duck soup, sloshing around in a hurricane." Rambo II is even more romantic.

Hitler had been in power for six months. Duck Soup, said Harpo, was his most difficult movie, and the only one in which he worried about his performance. Not because of the director or the script. “The trouble was Adolph Hitler.” American radio was broadcasting Hitler’s speeches, and “twice we suspended shooting to listen to him scream.

Frozen aquatic bird soup on a stick is a BearPaw Duck Farm popsicle. It's easy to make. Just pour the powdered mix into a bowl, add water, and freeze with a stick in the center.

Ducks make the best soup. Campbell’s used to, but Joseph A. Campbell died on March 27th, 1900, and the FoodDrink that comes in their cans now tastes like a cemetery.

I’m now selling Duck-Soup Popsicles in vintage meatloaf colors. The flavor of 1991 has never looked so good while camping. Just ask Bigfoot.

BearPaw Duck Farm makes the BEST SwimmingBird Soup. So, what's the secret ingredient? Simple: Swimming. You don't have to be Michael Phelps to figure that out.

Ducks are cat birds, and I'm now serving hot Cuddle Soup. FREE refills on sunshine naps. (Offer not valid at night.)

Ducks are melodic, not melodramatic. That, plus the gift of aquatic aviation, makes them the ideal soup ingredient.

Whoever said Romance is dead needs to meet me at The Ozarks Cemetery and help me get this thing to a hospital. It's coughing and cold, but we can still save it. I'll bring Duck Noodle Soup.

After a stranger asked where I'm from, I told him I'm from Florida, and he said he has been there once and he'd stayed a week. I replied, "Yes, I remember. We all waited for you to come back, and we wondered where you had gone. We cried out for you, but you never answered." Then I offered him a swig of duck soup, because I had a thermos full and we were now practically brothers.

Huge tureens of puréed chestnut soup with truffles were carried in and served to each guest, filling the air with a rich earthy small. Then the servants brought in ballotine of pheasant, served with cold lobster in aspic and deep-sea oysters brought up the river by boat that morning. Our own foie gras on tiny rounds of bread was followed by 'margret de canard,' the breast meat of force-fed ducks, roasted with small home-grown pears and Armagnac. There was a white-bean cassoulet with wild hare, a haunch of venison cooked in cinnamon and wine, eel pie, and a salad of leaves and flowers from the garden, dressed in olive oil and lemon.

Nine out of ten dentists recommend my duck-soup-flavored toothpaste. Finally, a toothpaste that was designed to be paired with orange juice. It also goes well with red wine, if you like to start your morning off that way.

The future is now, and every moment it's melting. Tomorrow is too late to learn how to swim like a duck. Makes more sense to microwave ice cream. I’m now selling Vanilla Soup, but you’d better buy it while it’s still cold.

North Korea is a famine state. In the fields, you can see people picking up loose grains of rice and kernels of corn, gleaning every scrap. They look pinched and exhausted. In the few, dingy restaurants in the city, and even in the few modern hotels, you can read the Pyongyang Times through the soup, or the tea, or the coffee. Morsels of inexplicable fat or gristle are served as 'duck.' One evening I gave in and tried a bowl of dog stew, which at least tasted hearty and spicy—they wouldn't tell me the breed—but then found my appetite crucially diminished by the realization that I hadn't seen a domestic animal, not even the merest cat, in the whole time I was there.

When we were kids, getting your mouth washed out with soap was punishment. But today, I’m selling duck-soup-flavored soap that your own kids will beg to have for dinner, which you’ll eat under a waterfall for maximum bubbles.

A pond is just a giant bowl of Rain Soup. BearPaw Duck Farm has one that's one quarter full, or three quarters empty, depending on if you are a realist or a realist. I myself am a realist, which is like a pessimist's pessimist.

While nine out of ten dentists, or 99.9%, recommend my duck-soup-flavored toothpaste, exactly ZERO decided to buy my new math class, "Understanding How Fractions Work—And Can Work To Make You Rich.” The book is ONLY $19.95, and it comes with FREE refills.

At BearPaw Duck Farm, we want to help you lose weight by serving nothing but MoonPies, which have significantly less gravity than earthier foods such as fruits, vegetables, and SwimmingBird Soup. The MoonPies taste fake, just like the 1969 Apollo Lunar Landing.

It has now been many months, at the present writing, since I have had a nourishing meal, but I shall soon have one—a modest, private affair, all to myself. I have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me, and be hot when I arrive—as follows: Radishes. Baked apples, with cream Fried oysters; stewed oysters. Frogs. American coffee, with real cream. American butter. Fried chicken, Southern style. Porter-house steak. Saratoga potatoes. Broiled chicken, American style. Hot biscuits, Southern style. Hot wheat-bread, Southern style. Hot buckwheat cakes. American toast. Clear maple syrup. Virginia bacon, broiled. Blue points, on the half shell. Cherry-stone clams. San Francisco mussels, steamed. Oyster soup. Clam Soup. Philadelphia Terapin soup. Oysters roasted in shell-Northern style. Soft-shell crabs. Connecticut shad. Baltimore perch. Brook trout, from Sierra Nevadas. Lake trout, from Tahoe. Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans. Black bass from the Mississippi. American roast beef. Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style. Cranberry sauce. Celery. Roast wild turkey. Woodcock. Canvas-back-duck, from Baltimore. Prairie liens, from Illinois. Missouri partridges, broiled. 'Possum. Coon. Boston bacon and beans. Bacon and greens, Southern style. Hominy. Boiled onions. Turnips. Pumpkin. Squash. Asparagus. Butter beans. Sweet potatoes. Lettuce. Succotash. String beans. Mashed potatoes. Catsup. Boiled potatoes, in their skins. New potatoes, minus the skins. Early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot. Sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. Stewed tomatoes. Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper. Green corn, on the ear. Hot corn-pone, with chitlings, Southern style. Hot hoe-cake, Southern style. Hot egg-bread, Southern style. Hot light-bread, Southern style. Buttermilk. Iced sweet milk. Apple dumplings, with real cream. Apple pie. Apple fritters. Apple puffs, Southern style. Peach cobbler, Southern style Peach pie. American mince pie. Pumpkin pie. Squash pie. All sorts of American pastry. Fresh American fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which are not to be doled out as if they were jewelry, but in a more liberal way. Ice-water—not prepared in the ineffectual goblet, but in the sincere and capable refrigerator.

According to that book, only one Marx contributed an unforgotten pun to the Round Tablers’ vaunted word games. It wasn’t Groucho, who must have been furious. Nor was it Harpo, who for all we know sat at the table naked. Nor was it Chico, who had more dangerous games elsewhere. It was Gummo. Evidently Gummo had a seat at that table at least once, and he made it count. Everybody knows that Dorothy Parker, challenged to make a sentence with the word horticulture, quipped as follows: “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.” But who knew that Gummo, taking on euphoria, came up with this: LEFT TO RIGHT: Harpo, Zeppo, Chico, Groucho, and Gummo, 1957. “Go outside and play,” Minnie told the brothers. “Which ones?” they asked. And she said: “Euphoria.”*

Because this tea kaiseki would be served so soon after breakfast, it would be considerably smaller than a traditional one. As a result, Stephen had decided to serve each mini tea kaiseki in a round stacking bento box, which looked like two miso soup bowls whose rims had been glued together. After lifting off the top dome-shaped cover the women would behold a little round tray sporting a tangle of raw squid strips and blanched scallions bound in a tahini-miso sauce pepped up with mustard. Underneath this seafood "salad" they would find a slightly deeper "tray" packed with pearly white rice garnished with a pink salted cherry blossom. Finally, under the rice would be their soup bowl containing the wanmori, the apex of the tea kaiseki. Inside the dashi base we had placed a large ball of fu (wheat gluten) shaped and colored to resemble a peach. Spongy and soft, it had a savory center of ground duck and sweet lily bulb. A cluster of fresh spinach leaves, to symbolize the budding of spring, accented the "peach," along with a shiitake mushroom cap simmered in mirin, sake, and soy. When the women had finished their meals, we served them tiny pink azuki bean paste sweets. David whipped them a bowl of thick green tea. For the dry sweets eaten before his thin tea, we served them flower-shaped refined sugar candies tinted pink. After all the women had left, Stephen, his helper, Mark, and I sat down to enjoy our own "Girl's Day" meal. And even though I was sitting in the corner of Stephen's dish-strewn kitchen in my T-shirt and rumpled khakis, that soft peach dumpling really did taste feminine and delicate.

free copy of Donald Duck that fell through the letter box one autumn day, featuring a lottery with a thousand wristwatches (a thousand iPads in today’s youth economy) to give away. Not to mention the content. Donald Duck as a teacher. The nephews squash an ice cream onto their weary uncle’s forehead. Wasting a whole ice cream without a second thought! At some point, from that same America, packets of green-and-white powder arrived that a housewife could instantly transform into a pan of soup. ‘California’, the concoction was called. ‘California,’ we whispered. California. In the provincial town where I grew up, we lugged the cabbage, lettuce and potatoes we’d grown on our allotment past several new factories on the Marshallweg, a road named after a general who, as I understood it, had paid to set up all

Before them were soups and stews filled with various tubers, roasted venison, long hot loaves of sourdough bread, and rows of honeycakes dripped with raspberry preserve. In a bed of greens lay filleted trout garnished with parsley, and on the side, pickled eel stared forlornly at an urn of cheese, as if hoping to somehow escape back into a river. A swan sat on each table, surrounded by a flock of stuffed partridges, geese, and ducks. Mushrooms were everywhere: broiled in juicy strips, placed atop a bird’s head like a bonnet, or carved in the shape of castles amid moats of gravy. An incredible variety was on display, from puffy white mushrooms the size of Eragon’s fist, to ones he could have mistaken for gnarled bark, to delicate toadstools sliced neatly in half to showcase their blue flesh. Then the centerpiece of the feast was revealed: a gigantic roasted boar, glistening with sauce. At least Eragon thought it was a boar, for the carcass was as large as Snowfire and took six dwarves to carry. The tusks were longer than his forearms, the snout as wide as his head. And the smell, it overwhelmed all others in pungent waves that made his eyes water from their strength.

HERE ARE MY TEN BEEF NOODLE SOUP COMMANDMENTS: 1. Throw out the first: always flash-boil your bones and beef to get the “musk” out. I’ve gone back and forth on this a lot. I would sometimes brown the meat as opposed to boil, but decided in the end that for this soup, you gotta boil. If you brown, it’s overpowering. The lesson that beef noodle soup teaches you is restraint. Sometimes less is more if you want all the flavors in the dish to speak to you. 2. Make sure the oil is medium-high when the aromatics go down and get a slight caramelization. It’s a fine line. Too much caramelization and it becomes too heavy, but no caramelization and your stock is weak. 3. Rice wine can be tricky. Most people like to vaporize it so that all the alcohol is cooked off. I like to leave a little of the alcohol flavor ’cause it tends to cut through the grease a bit. 4. Absolutely no butter, lard, or duck fat. I’ve seen people in America try to “kick it up a notch” with animal fats and it ruins the soup. Peanut oil or die. 5. Don’t burn the chilis and peppercorns, not even a little bit. You want the spice and the numbness, but not the smokiness. 6. After sautéing the chilis/peppercorns, turn off the heat and let them sit in the oil to steep. This is another reason you want to turn the heat off early. 7. Strain your chilis/peppercorns out of the oil, put them in a muslin bag, and set them aside. Then add ginger/garlic/scallions to the oil in that order. Stage them. 8. I use tomatoes in my beef noodle soup, but I add them after the soup is finished and everything is strained. I let them hang out in the soup as it sits on the stove over the course of the day. I cut the tomatoes thin so they give off flavor without having to cook too long and so you can serve them still intact. 9. Always use either shank or chuck flap. Brisket is too tough. If you want to make it interesting, add pig’s foot or oxtail. 10. Do you. I don’t give you measurements with this because I gave you all the ingredients and the technique. The best part about beef noodle soup is that there are no rules. It just has to have beef, noodle, and soup. There are people that do clear broth beef noodle soup. Beef noodle soup with dairy. Beef noodle soup with pig’s blood. It would suck if you looked at my recipe and never made your own, ’cause everyone has a beef noodle soup in them. Show it to me.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

Geraldine nodded and headed for Mrs. Armstrong's lawn. I felt sorry for her in her carrot pajamas, having no idea what was really going on. I followed the other girls and stood behind the shrubs. Mrs. Armstrong's house was ginormous. Her house was even bigger than Aunt Jeanie's. There was one light on upstairs. I figured that was the bedroom. The rest of the house was dark. Geraldine went to the far end of the yard and removed a can of spray paint from the bag. She shook it and began to spray. "She's such an idiot," Ava said, taking out her phone to record Geraldine's act of vandalism. "You guys are going to get her into so much trouble," I said. "So what?" Hannah replied. "She got us in trouble at the soup kitchen, it's not like she's ever going to become a Silver Rose anyway. She's totally wasting her time." Geraldine slowly made her way up and down the huge yard carefully spraying the grass. It would take her forever to complete it and there wasn't nearly enough spray paint. "Hey, guys!" Geraldine yelled from across the lawn. "How about I spray a rose in the grass? That would be cool, right?" I cringed. The light on upstairs meant the Armstrongs were still awake. Geraldine was about to get us all caught. "O-M-G," Hannah moaned. "Shhhh," Summer hissed, but Geraldine kept screaming at the top of her lungs. "Well, what do you guys think?" My heart dropped into my stomach as a light from downstairs clicked on. We ducked behind the hedges and froze. "Who's out there?" called a man's voice. I couldn't see him and I couldn't see Geraldine. I heard the door close and I peeked over the hedges. "He went back inside," I whispered, ducking back down. At that moment something went shk-shk-shk and Geraldine screamed. We all stood to see what was happening. Someone had turned the sprinklers on and Geraldine was getting soaked. The door flew open and I heard Mrs. Armstrong's voice followed by a dog's vicious barking. "Get 'em, Killer!" "Killer!" Ava screamed and we all took off running down the street with a soggy Geraldine trailing behind us. I was faster than all the other girls. I had no intentions of being gobbled up by a dog named Killer. We stopped running when we got to Ava's street and Killer was nowhere in sight. We walked back to the house at a normal pace. "So, did I prove myself to the sisterhood?" Geraldine asked. Hannah turned to her. "Are you kidding me? Your yelling woke them up, you moron. We got chased down the street by a dog because of you." Geraldine frowned and looked down at the ground. Hopefully what I had told her before about the girls not being her friends was starting to settle in. Inside all the other girls wanted to know what had happened. Ava was giving them the gory details when a knock on the door interrupted her. It was Mrs. Armstrong. She had on a black bathrobe and her hair was in curlers. I chuckled to myself because I was used to seeing her look absolutely perfect. We all sat on our sleeping bags looking as innocent as possible except for Geraldine who still stood awkwardly by the door, dripping wet. Mrs. Armstrong cleared her throat. "Someone has just vandalized my lawn with spray paint. Silver spray paint. Since I know it's a tradition for the Silver Roses to pull a prank on me on the night of the retreat, I'm going to assume it was one of you. More specifically, the one who's soaking wet right now." All eyes went to Geraldine. She looked at the ground and said nothing. What could she possibly say to defend herself? She even had silver spray paint on her fingers. Mrs. Armstrong looked her up and down. "Young lady, this is your second strike and that's two strikes too many. Your bid to become a Junior Silver Rose is for the second time hereby revoked." Geraldine's shoulders drooped, but most of the girls were smirking. This had been their plan all along and they had accomplished it.

He leant back to stare heavenwards, gently fingering the swollen skin around his black eye. But the river stank. Reduced by the heat like a good soup, it was sixty per cent ducks' piss with a hint of incontinent rat.

However, my next-door neighbors had an entirely different manner of eating. When I’d go over there for dinner, it was buffet style, only a truly global sampling. Beluga caviar from Iran, with each individual egg handpicked with as much consideration as a cabinet post for the White House. Deviled eggs so scrumptious it was as if Satan himself prepared them. Pastries and Danishes made from scratch like a tasty mosquito bite. And finally, bird’s nest soup consisting of more fowl saliva than even Donald Duck ever spat during one of his more vociferous spats.

A sole cooked in a rich sauce of cream and mushrooms must be followed by a dry dish of entirely different aspect such as a roast partridge or a grilled tournedos, cold ham, jellied beef or a terrine of duck. It must not be preceded by a creamy mushroom soup, nor followed by chicken cooked in a cream sauce. Have some regard for the digestions of others even if your own resembles that of the ostrich.

Lucky for Joan, she was not watching when her devilish sons nearly knocked Layla off her feet in front of Fadden's Mini-Mart. "How's it going?" Peter winked at Layla as his brother let out a low whistle. Layla, having just sidestepped Benny Corcoran's admiration, was not prepared for the wily twins' attentions. With an enchanting combination of teenage timidity and self-assurance, she nodded briefly in their direction before ducking into the mini-mart. "Jaysus. Did you see her?" "See her? Michael, I think we've just witnessed a miracle.

As the coronation guests took their place, the kitchen staff brought in an array of culinary wonders: roast duck with skin crisped to caramelized perfection; turtle soup and roast bear paw; crab apples in honey; dumplings stuffed with everything from meat, to wild greens, to sweetened lotus paste, and molded to resemble goldfish, butterflies, and flowers.

LENTILS WITH SAUSAGES { LENTILLES AUX SAUCISSES } My friend Fabienne makes this dish at the drop of a hat, because it’s quick, simple, satisfying, and delicious! Traditional vegetables in a dish like this are carrots, celery, onions, and perhaps fennel, which make it so flavorful. Sometimes it’s fun to go a bit wild, though, as Fabienne says. “I use red bell pepper,” she said. “It gives the dish exciting color and flavor.” Whichever vegetables you use, be sure to dice them so they blend in nicely. This calls for a hearty red, from Cahors. NOTE: You need delicious pork for this recipe. I’ve suggested kielbasa and slab bacon; use pork belly or unsmoked bacon, salt pork that you’ve boiled in fresh water twice first, or fresh pork sausages. 1 tablespoon duck fat or extra-virgin olive oil 2 medium onions, diced 1 small red bell pepper, seeds and pith removed Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper 1 large clove garlic, green germ removed, minced 1 cup (250g) green lentils (ideally lentilles de Puy), picked over for small stones, rinsed 1 bouquet garni 1 (8-ounce; 250g) Morteau or kielbasa, cut into ½-inch (1.2cm) rounds 2 to 3 fresh sausages (about 8 ounces; 250g total), cut into 2-inch (5cm) pieces 6 ounces (180g) lean slab bacon, cut into 1-inch (2.5cm) chunks Fresh flat-leaf parsley, for garnish Grainy mustard, for serving Melt the duck fat in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat. Add the onions and bell pepper and stir. Season with salt and black pepper and cook until the onions are translucent, stirring frequently so they don’t stick, about 6 minutes. Add the garlic and stir. Add the lentils, stir, and add water to cover them by 1 inch (2.5cm). Add the bouquet garni, pushing it under the water. Raise the heat to medium-high and when the water boils, reduce the heat to medium so it is simmering, partially cover, and cook until the lentils begin to soften, about 15 minutes. Add the meats, pushing them into the lentils, and additional water if necessary to make sure that the lentils are moist. Return the liquid to a boil, then reduce the heat to maintain a simmer and cook, partially covered, until the lentils are “al dente” and not too soft, 15 to 20 minutes more. Remove from the heat and ladle into four shallow soup bowls. Garnish with a generous grind of black pepper and a parsley leaf. Serve immediately with the mustard alongside. SERVES 4

PEASE PORRIDGE in the pot, nine days old” fairly well summarizes the technique of stew preparation in Shakespeare’s day. A thick soup would have been left cooking for days at a time, with new vegetables, stock, and bits of leftover meat continually added. This Italian version contains rich duck meat, a delicious and unusual addition to pea soup.

Angelina wanted to start them off with a soup, one that would contrast nicely with the veal. She decided on her Mint Sweet Potato Bisque, a wonderful pureed soup, slightly thickened with rice, accented with golden raisins, brightened by fresh mint. And dessert called for pie. This was the first time she was having Johnny and Jerry to the table, and in Jerry's case it was almost a sales pitch, so everything had to be great. She jotted "Pears, black cherries, whole allspice, airplane bottle of Old Overholt Rye" down on her shopping list. The pie would bring it across the finish line. Tracking down fresh mint and black cherries proved problematic. After four stops and no luck, she ended up taking the bus all the way to the Reading Terminal Market. Compromising on dried mint and canned cherries was out of the question. It worked out well enough in the end because she found what she was looking for and even managed to duck into the Spice Terminal and score whole allspice for the pie, some Spanish saffron (because it was on sale), cardamom pods (impossible to find anywhere else), and mace blades (because she'd never tried them before).

LEO MCCAREY: Over at Paramount, I found myself directing the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup. The amazing thing about that movie was that I succeeded in not going crazy. They were completely mad.

I nailed my ice skates to a wooden floor. That’s how I learned to play hockey like a duck swims in soup.

Tsuyahime rice from Yamagata-extra-big portion of that. Pork miso soup on the side. Plenty of root vegetables in there too, even if they're not all fancy Kyoto specialties. Now, the large platter is a fusion of Japanese and Western cuisine. That there is deep-fried hamo eel with sour plum pulp and perilla leaf. The Manganji peppers are deep-fried too. Try those with my homemade Worcestershire sauce. The small bowl is miso-simmered mackerel with a shredded myoga ginger dressing. The roast beef is Kyoto stock- best enjoyed with a drizzle of the wasabi-infused soy sauce and wrapped in a sheet of toasted nori. As for the teriyaki-style duck meatballs, you can dip those in the accompanying quail egg yolk. Chilled tofu garnished with the minced skin of the hamo eel and, finally, deep-fried Kamo eggplant with a starchy curry sauce. Enjoy!

Finally, each night, the crowd gather at the king's antechamber to attend the dinner of the Royal Table. Another grand ritual: four soups--- his favorite being crayfish in a silver bowl--- sole in a small dish, fried eggs, a whole pheasant with redcurrant jelly, a whole partridge or duck (depending on the season) stuffed with truffles, salads, mutton, ham, pastry, fruit, compote, preserves, cakes. All stone-cold, for the kitchen is so far away that the king has never experienced a hot meal, and eaten largely with hands, for nor has he ever touched that new-fangled device the fork. For special occasions entire tiered gardens of desserts form pyramids on the table: precariously balanced exotic fruits, jellies, and sweet pastes; sorbets scented with amber and musk; the wonders of the ancient world recreated in spun-sugar and pâte morte; gingerbread palaces.

There was butternut squash soup from Providence, crispy rice and sour-pork salad from Lum Ka Naad, prawns with black vinegar dressing from Kato, Wagyu beef prepared by n/naka, crispy fried chicken from Dulan's, duck tartare from Animal, barrio tacos from Teddy's and miniconchas from La Favorita Bakery that were so small and delicate that it was hard to just eat one... or six.

Tonight, we have Peking duck over the Noodle Soup.

I really want my roots to come through in this meal," I said, very conscious of the cameras filming everything I was saying. "I want to make sure viewers and diners"----and investors, please, especially investors----"see everything that the food of my ancestors can be. That Jewish food isn't just matzah ball soup and pastrami sandwiches." So it was with that attitude I went about planning my menu. "I'm thinking my first dish is going to be a tribute to my grandmother," I said. "She was very into chopped liver. I hated it as a kid, for good reason: her chopped liver was bland and gritty." Grandma Ruth hissed in my ear, but I ignored her. "I want to make good chopped liver on good bread with something vinegary and acidic to cut through it. Maybe some kind of pickled fruit, because the judges really loved my pickled cherries in the last round." "How about kumquats?" suggested Kaitlyn. "Or gooseberries?" "I like gooseberries," said Kel. I made a note. "We'll see what they have at the store, since we'll be on a budget. With the second course, Ashkenazi cooking has so many preserved and sometimes weird fish dishes. Think gefilte fish and pickled herring. I've wanted to do my special gefilte fish this whole competition and never got a chance, so I think now's the time." "If not now, when?" Kel said reasonably. "Indeed. And I think coupling it with pickled herring and maybe some other kind of fish to make a trio will create something amazing. Maybe something fried, since the other two parts of the dish won't have any crunch. Or I could just do, like, a potato chip? I do love potatoes." I made another note. "And for the third dish, I'm thinking duck. I want to do cracklings with the duck skin and then a play on borscht, which is what the dish is really about. Beets on the plate, pickled onions, an oniony sauce, et cetera." "Ducks and beets play well together," Kel said, approval warm on their round face.

And suddenly he was by my side and I was standing and he was ducking down to kiss me. Our lips met with a gentle thrill down the back of my neck. This wasn't a fiery kiss, one that foretold clothes tearing and fuck mes. It was a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, one that brought with it promises of waking up next to each other every morning and him bringing me chicken soup when I was sick and me slowly stealing all of his hoodies because they smelled like him. I pulled away and nestled my cheek into his shoulder. He leaned his head down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Does this mean you're my boyfriend now? However high school that sounds." "It means I'm your boyfriend," he said. "Does it mean you're my girlfriend? Do you want me to write a note where you can check off the yes or no box?" This next kiss melted me. Now came the clothes tearing, the sweeping of plastic plates off the table, the gasping as he bent over me and I but his earlobe and he groaned into the curve of my neck. Who needed pastries? This was better than any dessert.

After a meal of yogurt soup, duck with pomegranate and walnut sauce over barley, stewed spinach, and baked apples, they could move to her receiving room and enjoy wine in the comfort of a more private setting.

He ranted at me while I put out the next course: a dish of boiled pigeons enveloped in a blancmange, the best I had ever made, with pulverized chicken, rose water, almonds, sugar, capon broth, ginger, verjuice and cinnamon. I had them placed in a deep dish, poured on the blancmange and scattered the snow-white surface with a thick covering of poppy seeds until the silver dish seemed to hold nothing but tiny black grains. Over this I arranged stars cut out of fine silver foil. There was a breast of veal, stuffed with cheese, eggs, saffron, herbs and raisins, upon which I scattered the darkest rose petals I could find at the flower market. There was a soup of black cabbage; boiled calves' feet with a sauce of figs and black pepper; and boiled ducks with more sliced black truffle.

He passed the rutabaga and duck terrine toward me with the tips of his fingers. "Isn't this a little odd?" I wanted to like it, I did. I pushed the ingredients around with my knife and fork, trying to understand it and formulate an opinion. Then Felix swooped in. "Oh, miss. Pardon me, I was helping another table. That's supposed to be served with something else." He looked at Michael Saltz sheepishly, and Michael Saltz turned his toupeed head away. "We added this dish today, and I'm still getting used to serving it. The proper preparation includes just a bit of truffle." He took out a fist-size beige knot from underneath a white napkin. The shavings rained down in ruffled, translucent strands. Felix backed away as I poked my fork through the tangle of truffles, into the terrine. I had read about truffles- their taste, their hormonal, almost sexual aromas, their exorbitant cost- but I had never even seen a truffle in person before, and had a hard time understanding why people paid thousands of dollars an ounce for something so humble-looking. But at Tellicherry, I understood. I melted in my chair. "Mmm..." I couldn't stop saying it. "Mmmm." Michael Saltz, excited too, picked up a large pinch of truffle shavings and held them to his nose. "These are very good. The finest." "Oh God," I said, in a state of delirium. "This makes the dish so much better. Why aren't truffles on everything?" I had forgotten about the funky terrine. Now it was just a vehicle for the magical urgings of the truffle. A few minutes later, Felix came out again. "Here's your next dish, potato pearls with black, green, and crimson caviar in a cauliflower cream nage." The caviar shined like little jewels among the equal-sized potatoes. They bobbed around in the soup, glistening as if illuminated from within. I took a spoonful and in surged a soft, sweet ribbon of cauliflower essence. I popped the caviar eggs one by one. Pop, went one, a silken fishiness. Pop, went another, a sharp, tangy brine. Pop, went a seductive one, dark and mysterious and deep.

For starters, no more doing your own shopping anymore because you buy nothing but crap. Cereal bars and cookies and cream desserts and all that, finito. I don't know what time you get up in the morning but from Tuesday on you have to remember that I'm the one who's feeding you, okay? Every day at three when I come home, I'll bring you a meal. Don't worry, I know girls, I won't give you duck confit or tripe. I'll make a good yummy little dish just for you. Fish, grilled meat, tasty veggies- stuff you'll really like. I'll make small amounts but you've got to eat it all or else I'll stop. In the evening I won't be here to harass you, but no snacking or nibbling! I'll go on making a big pot of soup at the beginning of the week for Philou the way I always have, and that's it. The idea is to get you hooked on my food. So that every morning you'll get up wondering what's on the menu. I don't promise it'll be utterly amazing every single time, but it'll be good, you'll see. And when you start to fill out, I'll..." "You'll what?" "I'll eat you." "Like the witch in Hansel and Gretel?" "You bet! And no use giving me a bone when I go to feel your arm because I'm not blind!

The soup kettles included oyster stew, chili, matzoh ball soup, tomato soup, vegetable beef soup, hot and sour soup, and miso soup. The main dish table featured turkey, Virginia ham, prime rib, standing rib roast, pork roast, roast goose, Peking duck, lasagna, pizza, burritos, tamales, macaroni and cheese, and, in direct defiance of Grandfather's orders, grilled portobello mushrooms in red wine sauce.

We have pretzels and mustard. We have doughnuts. And if we really, really like you, we have chips and dip. This is fun food. It isn't stuffy. It isn't going to make anyone nervous. The days of the waiter as a snob, the days of the menu as an exam/ the guest has to pass are over. But at the same time, we're not talking about cellophane bags here, are we? These are hand-cut potato chips with crème fraîche and a dollop of beluga caviar. This is the gift we send out. It's better than Christmas." He offered the plate to Adrienne and she helped herself to a long, golden chip. She scooped up a tiny amount of the glistening black caviar. Just tasting it made her feel like a person of distinction. Adrienne hoped the menu meeting might continue in this vein- with the staff tasting each ambrosial dish. But there wasn't time; service started in thirty minutes. Thatcher wanted to get through the menu. "The corn chowder and the shrimp bisque are cream soups, but neither of these soups is heavy. The Caesar is served with pumpernickel croutons and white anchovies. The chèvre salad is your basic mixed baby greens with a round of breaded goat cheese, and the candy-striped beets are grown locally at Bartlett Farm. Ditto the rest of the vegetables, except for the portobello mushrooms that go into the ravioli- those are flown in from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. So when you're talking about vegetables, you're talking about produce that's grown in Nantucket soil, okay? It's not sitting for thirty-six hours on the back of a truck. Fee selects them herself before any of you people are even awake in the morning. It's all very Alice Waters, what we do here with our vegetables." Thatcher clapped his hands. He was revving up, getting ready for the big game. In the article in Bon Appétit, Thatcher had mentioned that the only thing he loved more than his restaurant was college football. "Okay, okay!" he shouted. It wasn't a menu meeting; it was a pep rally! "The most popular item on the menu is the steak frites. It is twelve ounces of aged New York strip grilled to order- and please note you need a temperature on that- served with a mound of garlic fries. The duck, the sword, the lamb lollipops- see, we're having fun here- are all served at the chef's temperature. If you have a guest who wants the lamb killed- by which I mean well done- you're going to have to take it up with Fiona. The sushi plate is spelled out for you- it's bluefin tuna caught forty miles off the shore, and the sword is harpooned in case you get a guest who has just seen a Nova special about how the Canadian coast is being overfished.

FRENCH GARLIC SOUP (SOUPE A L’AIL) Bring chicken stock to a boil. Sauté abundant minced garlic in duck fat (or olive oil), add to the stock along with a bouquet garni, and simmer. Remove the bouquet and add beaten egg whites to the soup, let them set, and remove from the heat. Temper egg yolks, add them to the soup, and season with salt and pepper. Put a slice of day-old country bread in a bowl, sprinkle with Parmesan, then pour soup over. Egg whites can be cut into smaller pieces.

Gentlemen, Chicolini here may look like an idiot, and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.” – Duck Soup (1933)

Sample snail porridge at Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck UK // Consistently voted among the world’s best restaurants, The Fat Duck is nestled near the River Thames in the storybook setting of the village of Bray, from where it invites diners on a nostalgic and imaginative journey where nothing is as it seems. Imagine soup that is both hot and cold; sashimi served with a foam conjured from seafood on a bed of tapioca sand; or snail porridge. As the visual cues for each dish belie the taste, your senses soar into the unique gastronomic universe of Heston Blumenthal’s creation. With just 42 daily spaces for lunch and dinner, you won’t be surprised to learn that booking slots are only opened at certain times of the year, and your wait will usually run to about a four months–which will give you plenty of time to save up for the £ 300 meal. Without drinks.

Mock-turtle soup, salmon, fricasseed guillemot, spiced musk-ox tongue, crab-salad, roast beef, eider-ducks, tenderloin of musk-ox, potatoes, asparagus, green corn, green peas, cocoanut-pie, jelly-cake, plum-pudding with wine-sauce, several kinds of ice-cream, grapes, cherries, pineapples, dates, figs, nuts, candies, coffee, chocolate.

Don't tell them you're not a Marxist, darling, we saw Duck Soup together at the Rialto just last week.