Gourmande Quotes

I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti

Cannibals? Who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate de fois gras.

A daydream is a meal at which images are eaten. Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish.

An idler and a sluggard are as different as a gourmand and a glutton.

My dear man, a gourmand is a gentleman with the talent and fortitude to continue eating even when he is not hungry.

As the ego-dead, so we might imagine, we would continue to know pain in its various forms—that is the essence of existence—but we would not be cozened by our egos to take it personally, an attitude that converts an individual’s pain into conscious suffering. Naturally, we would still have to feed, but we would not be omnivorous gourmands who eat for amusement, gorging down everything in nature and turning to the laboratory for more. As for reproduction, who can say? Animals are driven to copulate, and even as the ego-dead we would not be severed from biology, although we would not be unintelligently ruled by it, as we are now. As a corollary of not being unintelligently ruled by biology, neither would we sulk over our extinction, as we do now. Why raise another generation destined to climb aboard the evolution treadmill? But then, why not raise another generation of the ego-dead? For those who do not perceive either their pleasures or their pains as belonging to them, neither life nor death would be objectionable or not objectionable, desirable or not desirable, all right or not all right. We would be the ego-dead, the self-less, and, dare we are, the enlightened.

Go to the meat market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal's jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who naliest geese to the ground and feistiest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.

It is, admittedly, a base foodstuff, but lobster, well prepared, can nevertheless be made to satisfy the distinguished gourmand.

Where there are wars, there will be crows, the carrion-fanciers. And ravens too, the warbirds, the eyeball gourmands. And vultures, the holy birds of yore, old connoisseurs of rot.

De toutes les passions, la seule vraiment respectable me paraît être la gourmandise.

The chairs - turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes - seemed like the seats of ghosts in close conversation with one another. There were sets of two chairs - very close to one another - in the far corners of the room, which spoke of recent whispered flirtations, over cold game pie and iced champagne; there were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant animated discussions over the latest scandals; there were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowagers; there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most recherche dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's cellars.

She read absorbedly books found in boarding-house parlours, in hotels, in such public libraries as the times afforded. She was alone for hours a day, daily. Frequently her father, fearful of loneliness for her, brought her an armful of books and she had an orgy, dipping and swooping about among them in a sort of gourmand's ecstasy of indecision. In this way, at fifteen, she knew the writings of Byron, Jane Austen, Dickens, Charlotte Bronte, Felicia Hemans. Not to speak of Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, Bertha M. Clay, and that good fairy of the scullery, the Fireside Companion, in whose pages factory girls and dukes were brought together as inevitably as steak and onions. These last were, of course, the result of Selina's mode of living, and were loaned to her by kind-hearted landladies, chambermaids, and waitresses all the way from California to New York.

Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.

Basically, if the author is totally un-educated, then the text won't bring out his best. Normal, educated people always understand that. But here's the thing—when the author is very highly-educated, the result is the same: the text turns out sub-par. Like if Charybdis was an uneducated cannibal, and Scylla was a sophisticated gourmand. Real literature snakes between the two. Like Hera's hair.

It is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration before mentioned: i.e. that a man should eat a newly murdered thing of the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man that ever murdered an ox was regarded as murderer; perhaps he was hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and featest on their bloated livers in they pate-de-fois-gras. But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring that fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Ganders formerly indite his circulars? It is only within the last month or two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but steel pens.

A daydream is a meal at which images are eaten. Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish. --The Dyer’s Hand,

It's not important whether someone is a gourmet. Everyone wants to eat and knows that food is crucial to live. But everyone has his own special reaction toward food. One person can become so excited about a certain dish that his eyes sparkle and his muscles harden, while someone else shovels in the same dish without paying any thought to what he's eating. A gourmet appreciates beauty. Gourmets eat slowly and thoughtfully experience taste—they don't rush through a meal and leave the table as soon as they're done. People who are not gourmets don't see cooking as an art. Gourmandism is an interested in everything that can be eaten, and this deep affection for food birthed the art of cooking. Other animals have limited tastes, some eating only plants and others subsisting solely on but, but humans are omnivores. They can eat everything. Love for delicious food is the first emotion gourmets feel. Sometimes that love can't be thwarted, not by anything.

I took my time at the till, allowing the scent of my new batch of chocolate to filter through from the kitchen. Freshly ground Criollo beans; a dash of black pepper; a pinch of salt; then tamarind, vanilla and a generous measure of Armagnac.

« Et ces sauvages ? me demanda Conseil. N'en déplaise à monsieur, ils ne me semblent pas très méchants ! -- Ce sont pourtant des anthropophages, mon garçon. -- On peut être anthropophage et brave homme, répondit Conseil, comme on peut être gourmand et honnête. L'un n'exclut pas l'autre. -- Bon ! Conseil, je t'accorde que ce sont d'honnêtes anthropophages, et qu'ils dévorent honnêtement leurs prisonniers. Cependant, comme je ne tiens pas à être dévoré, même honnêtement, je me tiendrai sur mes gardes... »

But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand, dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating?

I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Feegee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Feegee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.

Fast food is zoo food.

But beyond the extravagance of Rome's wealthiest citizens and flamboyant gourmands, a more restrained cuisine emerged for the masses: breads baked with emmer wheat; polenta made from ground barley; cheese, fresh and aged, made from the milk of cows and sheep; pork sausages and cured meats; vegetables grown in the fertile soil along the Tiber. In these staples, more than the spice-rubbed game and wine-soaked feasts of Apicius and his ilk, we see the earliest signs of Italian cuisine taking shape. The pillars of Italian cuisine, like the pillars of the Pantheon, are indeed old and sturdy. The arrival of pasta to Italy is a subject of deep, rancorous debate, but despite the legend that Marco Polo returned from his trip to Asia with ramen noodles in his satchel, historians believe that pasta has been eaten on the Italian peninsula since at least the Etruscan time. Pizza as we know it didn't hit the streets of Naples until the seventeenth century, when Old World tomato and, eventually, cheese, but the foundations were forged in the fires of Pompeii, where archaeologists have discovered 2,000-year-old ovens of the same size and shape as the modern wood-burning oven. Sheep's- and cow's-milk cheeses sold in the daily markets of ancient Rome were crude precursors of pecorino and Parmesan, cheeses that literally and figuratively hold vast swaths of Italian cuisine together. Olives and wine were fundamental for rich and poor alike.

Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.

A mama's boy, loner, intellectual, voracious reader and gourmand, Dimitri was a man of esoteric skills and appetites: a gambler, philosopher, gardener, fly-fisherman, fluent in Russian and German as well as having an amazing command of English. He loved antiquated phrases, dry sarcasm, military jargon, regional dialect, and the New York Times crossword puzzle — to which he was hopelessly addicted.

First, there is hardly an innocent app; if it’s not tracking you now, it may be doing so in the next week or month: “There is an entire industry based upon these trackers, and apps identified as ‘clean’ today may contain trackers that have not yet been identified. Tracker code may also be added by developers to new versions of apps in the future.” Second is that even the most innocent-seeming applications such as weather, flashlights, ride sharing, and dating apps are “infested” with dozens of tracking programs that rely on increasingly bizarre, aggressive, and illegible tactics to collect massive amounts of behavioral surplus ultimately directed at ad targeting. For example, the ad tracker FidZup developed “communication between a sonic emitter and a mobile phone. . . .” It can detect the presence of mobile phones and therefore their owners by diffusing a tone, inaudible to the human ear, inside a building: “Users installing ‘Bottin Gourmand,’ a guide to restaurants and hotels in France, would thus have their physical location tracked via retail outlet speakers as they move around Paris.

Il n'y a que les imbéciles qui ne soient pas gourmands. On est gourmand comme on est artiste, comme on est instruit, comme on est poète. Le goût, mon cher, c'est un organe délicat, perfectible et respectable comme l’œil et l'oreille. Manquer de goût, c'est être privé d'une faculté exquise, de la faculté de discerner la qualité des aliments, comme on peut être privé de celle de discerner les qualités d'un livre ou d'une oeuvre d'art ; c'est être privé d'un sens essentiel, d'une partie de la supériorité humaine ; c'est appartenir à une des innombrables classes d'infirmes, de disgraciés et de sots dont se compose notre race ; c'est avoir la bouche bête, en un mot, comme on a l'esprit bête. Un homme qui ne distingue pas une langouste d'un homard, d'un hareng, cet admirable poisson qui porte en lui toutes les saveurs, tous les arômes de la mer, d'un maquereau ou d'un merlan, et une poire crassane d'une duchesse, est comparable à celui qui cofonderait Balzac avec Eugène Sue, une symphonie de Beethoven avec une marche militaire d'un chef de musique de régiment, et l'Apollon du Belvédère avec la statue du général Blanmont !

Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal's jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.

Much earlier in this century an Austrian journalist, Karl Kraus, pointed out that if you actually perceived the true reality behind the news you would run, screaming, into the streets. I have run screaming into the streets dozens of times but have always managed to return home in time for dinner-and usually an hour early so that I can help in the preparation.

Fine food is poison. It can be as bitter as antimony and bitter almonds and as repulsive as swallowing live toads. Like the poison the emperor took every day to stop himself being poisoned, fine food must be taken daily until the system becomes immune to its ravages and the taste buds beaten and abused to the point where they not only accept but savour every vile concoction under the sun.

Napoleon respected Islam, regarding the Koran as ‘not just religious; it is civil and political. The Bible only preaches morals.’52 He was also impressed by the way that the Muslims ‘tore more souls away from false gods, toppled more idols, pulled down more pagan temples in fifteen years than the followers of Moses and Christ had in fifteen centuries’.53* He had no objection to polygamy, saying that Egyptian men were gourmands en amour, and, when permitted, ‘will prefer having wives of various colours’.54† His flattery of the ulama (clergy), his discussions of the Koran, and his holding out the possibility of his conversion to Islam – as well as his attempts to impress the sheikhs with French science – were all intended to establish a collaborationist body of Egyptians, with mixed results. As it turned out, no amount of complying with Islamic ceremonies, salutations and usages prevented Selim III from declaring jihad against the French in Egypt, meaning that any attacks upon them were thenceforth blessed.

Why would anyone write anything after Hemingway, or compose a symphony after Beethoven, or paint a landscape after Turner? It isn't necessarily about doing it better. It's about doing it." "Michael, that isn't what I meant. It's just, why should I slave away in the kitchen when I can just come here and pay for someone really talented to do all the work while I enjoy the results?" "Tell her, Mira," Michael says, reaching back into Renata's dish for another taste. I know what Michael means. If someone told me that I could travel anywhere and eat anything I wanted, choosing, if I so desired, to eat only in Michelin-rated restaurants for the rest of my life, but the price for such a gourmand's dream would be that I could never cook again, I'd turn it down without a moment's hesitation. It's about doing your best by a pile of mussels sweet from the sea, or holding a perfect tomato, warm, rosy, and smelling like summer, and knowing that there are a dozen ways that you can prepare it, each one a delicious homage.

keep getting asked by letter and on the street by Jane and John Does dressed in spandex how they can prepare simple “gourmet” dinners in ten minutes so as to prolong, presumably, their cross-training and spritzer-drinking binges, massage and colonic appointments, drumming and marriage-counseling sessions, and tarot-card swap clubs. An easy answer here. Scoop ample quantities of Skippy on two paper plates. Handcuff each other and then slam your faces down into the plates with gusto. Good for the gluteus maximus. And it will bring you together at the sink, plus you won’t have to violate your space by answering the phone. Back to the

IV -Oh ! comme ils sont goulus ! dit la mère parfois. Il faut leur donner tout, les cerises des bois, Les pommes du verger, les gâteaux de la table; S'ils entendent la voix des vaches dans l'étable Du lait ! vite ! et leurs cris sont comme une forêt De Bondy quand un sac de bonbons apparaît. Les voilà maintenant qui réclament la lune ! Pourquoi pas ? Le néant des géants m'importune; Moi j'admire, ébloui, la grandeur des petits. Ah ! l'âme des enfants a de forts appétits, Certes, et je suis pensif devant cette gourmande Qui voit un univers dans l'ombre, et le demande. La lune ! Pourquoi pas ? vous dis-je. Eh bien, après ? Pardieu ! si je l'avais, je la leur donnerais. C'est vrai, sans trop savoir ce qu'ils en pourraient faire, Oui, je leur donnerais, lune, ta sombre sphère, Ton ciel, d'où Swedenborg n'est jamais revenu, Ton énigme, ton puits sans fond, ton inconnu ! Oui, je leur donnerais, en disant: Soyez sages ! Ton masque obscur qui fait le guet dans les nuages, Tes cratères tordus par de noirs aquilons, Tes solitudes d'ombre et d'oubli, tes vallons, Peut-être heureux, peut-être affreux, édens ou bagnes, Lune, et la vision de tes pâles montagnes. Oui, je crois qu'après tout, des enfants à genoux Sauraient mieux se servir de la lune que nous; Ils y mettraient leurs voeux, leur espoir, leur prière; Ils laisseraient mener par cette aventurière Leurs petits coeurs pensifs vers le grand Dieu profond. La nuit, quand l'enfant dort, quand ses rêves s'en vont, Certes, ils vont plus loin et plus haut que les nôtres. Je crois aux enfants comme on croyait aux apôtres; Et quand je vois ces chers petits êtres sans fiel Et sans peur, désirer quelque chose du ciel, Je le leur donnerais, si je l'avais. La sphère Que l'enfant veut, doit être à lui, s'il la préfère. D'ailleurs, n'avez-vous rien au delà de vos droits ? Oh ! je voudrais bien voir, par exemple, les rois S'étonner que des nains puissent avoir un monde ! Oui, je vous donnerais, anges à tête blonde, Si je pouvais, à vous qui régnez par l'amour, Ces univers baignés d'un mystérieux jour, Conduits par des esprits que l'ombre a pour ministres, Et l'énorme rondeur des planètes sinistres. Pourquoi pas  ? Je me fie à vous, car je vous vois, Et jamais vous n'avez fait de mal. Oui, parfois, En songeant à quel point c'est grand, l'âme innocente, Quand ma pensée au fond de l'infini s'absente, Je me dis, dans l'extase et dans l'effroi sacré, Que peut-être, là-haut, il est, dans l'Ignoré, Un dieu supérieur aux dieux que nous rêvâmes, Capable de donner des astres à des âmes.

J'ai dans la tête un mal gourmand qui me transforme en rosier stérile. Une saleté qui fait de moi une autre. Je voudrais l’espérance. Les mots me quittent un peu plus chaque jour sans que je puisse les retenir.

A few weeks ago, passing through my grocer’s, I bought a packet of dehydrated French’s pork gravy. The label noted that this gravy was award-winning. Since I have never won an award, who am I to question this gravy?

The Relais Châteaux gourmet cuisine establishments also happened to be housed in the most splendid real estate, a bit like monasteries, on hills commanding the best views, gorgeous walled gardens, riverside banks, or ramparts in old towns belonging to another era.

Julia’s attitude toward British food—that it was inedible, that it had little relevant history apart from being inedible, and that a more sensible population would simply take its meals in France—had been locked into place for a long time, and no respectable gourmand would have contradicted her.

Addison sighed. "All this fleeing," he said disdainfully, as if he were a gourmand and someone had offered him a limp square of American cheese. "There's no imagination in it. Mightn't we try sneaking? Blending in? There's artistry in that.

Birthdays are [soul chasers,] ghost bounty hunters that track you down to ask [the usual question[, “Qué pasa, baby?” (The Raw and the Cooked)

Making dinner for Wayne is either the easiest thing or the hardest thing on the planet, depending on how you look at it. After all, Wayne's famous Eleven are neither difficult to procure nor annoying to prepare. They are just. So. Boring. Roasted chicken Plain hamburgers Steak cooked medium Pork chops Eggs scrambled dry Potatoes, preferably fries, chips, baked, or mashed, and not with anything fancy mixed in Chili, preferably Hormel canned Green beans Carrots Corn Iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing That's it. The sum total of what Wayne will put into his maw. He doesn't even eat fricking PIZZA for chrissakes. Not including condiments, limited to ketchup and yellow mustard and Miracle Whip, and any and all forms of baked goods... when it comes to breads and pastries and desserts he has the palate of a gourmand, no loaf goes untouched, no sweet unexplored. It saves him, only slightly, from being a complete food wasteland. And he has no idea that it is strange to everyone that he will eat apple pie and apple cake and apple charlotte and apple brown Betty and apple dumplings and fritters and muffins and doughnuts and crisp and crumble and buckle, but will not eat AN APPLE.

Due To Eating The Dread and Surviving, You Have Gained a Title! Gourmand (Rare)! Eat Your Foes! Learn Their Strength! Knowledge Fuels You! +1 to INT and VIT!

Liberté Sur mes cahiers d'écolier Sur mon pupitre et les arbres Sur le sable de neige J'écris ton nom Sur toutes les pages lues Sur toutes les pages blanches Pierre sang papier ou cendre J'écris ton nom Sur les images dorées Sur les armes des guerriers Sur la couronne des rois J'écris ton nom Sur la jungle et le désert Sur les nids sur les genêts Sur l'écho de mon enfance J'écris ton nom Sur les merveilles des nuits Sur le pain blanc des journées Sur les saisons fiancées J'écris ton nom Sur tous mes chiffons d'azur Sur l'étang soleil moisi Sur le lac lune vivante J'écris ton nom Sur les champs sur l'horizon Sur les ailes des oiseaux Et sur le moulin des ombres J'écris ton nom Sur chaque bouffées d'aurore Sur la mer sur les bateaux Sur la montagne démente J'écris ton nom Sur la mousse des nuages Sur les sueurs de l'orage Sur la pluie épaisse et fade J'écris ton nom Sur les formes scintillantes Sur les cloches des couleurs Sur la vérité physique J'écris ton nom Sur les sentiers éveillés Sur les routes déployées Sur les places qui débordent J'écris ton nom Sur la lampe qui s'allume Sur la lampe qui s'éteint Sur mes raisons réunies J'écris ton nom Sur le fruit coupé en deux Du miroir et de ma chambre Sur mon lit coquille vide J'écris ton nom Sur mon chien gourmand et tendre Sur ses oreilles dressées Sur sa patte maladroite J'écris ton nom Sur le tremplin de ma porte Sur les objets familiers Sur le flot du feu béni J'écris ton nom Sur toute chair accordée Sur le front de mes amis Sur chaque main qui se tend J'écris ton nom Sur la vitre des surprises Sur les lèvres attendries Bien au-dessus du silence J'écris ton nom Sur mes refuges détruits Sur mes phares écroulés Sur les murs de mon ennui J'écris ton nom Sur l'absence sans désir Sur la solitude nue Sur les marches de la mort J'écris ton nom Sur la santé revenue Sur le risque disparu Sur l'espoir sans souvenir J'écris ton nom Et par le pouvoir d'un mot Je recommence ma vie Je suis né pour te connaître Pour te nommer Liberté

Louis de Bourbon and his right hands Cardinal Mazarin and Jean-Louis Colbert transformed France, particularly the city of Paris, into a haven for civilized society, a refuge for the arts, a gastronomic mecca for gourmands. That is what Georges-Guillaume Damas wanted to do for Gabon in Africa.

Cookery books,’ I will give it here for the benefit of gourmands generally. It is very simple. ‘Rec, Take one pound of flour (if musty, the better), one pound (a pint) of water, and one pound of salaratus. Mix to the consistency of putty and bake quickly in a very hot oven, so that the outside shall be burnt to a coal and

ce serait le meilleur moyen de prouver qu'ils sont des hommes. Parfois elle les gourmande : « Vous allez trop fort, nous ne vous soutiendrons plus. » Ils s'en foutent : pour ce que vaut le soutien qu'elle leur accorde, elle peut tout aussi bien se le mettre au cul.

Like a greedy gourmand, we lick our lips at the prospect of that desirable nectar: the war of fools among themselves, hackles raised, egos cocked. Great minds think alike, small minds collide. [...] if you try to rise above the throng you won’t be forgiven. Escape from the herd and you’ll still be led to the slaughterhouse.

Comrade Lukács's influence does not extend beyond a narrow circle of intellectual literary people. He has a narrow circle of followers, more of a sect than an army, 'literary experts', gourmands, who imitate his terminology.

At my cabin I got so jumpy after saving my young heroine from three older men who resembled my friends that I flipped and conceived of a highly illegal meal, a thirty-pound elephant's asshole shipped FedEx from Zimbabwe, cooked for three days in a rock-lined fire hole in a bleached gunnysack soaked in 151 rum, to which is added thirteen pounds of garlic and an equal amount of fresh hot chiles. Serve with plain white rice. A Bordeaux is a possibility.

—Søren Kierkegaard

As for Sturridge, he comes across as quite possibly the most likable man to ever wear the Liverbird. The chicken teriyaki enthusiast has been defying expectations and unfounded prejudice since he arrived at the club to a lukewarm fan response. He was a troublemaker, you see. He had a poor attitude and was a he Big Time Charlie, don't you know? The Chelsea guys said so and Jose Mourinho has never been anything other than ethical and sincere, right? Right? "The England front man was quick to disabuse dubious fans of their misguided assumptions. From his first interview he spoke with a candour and earnest enthusiasm that were utterly endearing. His performance on the pitch has been nothing short of remarkable and his prodigious tally of 35 goals in 49 appearances to date is worthy of far more adulation than he has received. Doubtless the dancing striker has suffered by comparison with the frankly unequalled brilliance of a certain now-departed flesh gourmand, but the Birmingham native is worthy of so much more praise and, with time on his side, he has the potential to become the nonpareil of Liverpool's recent strikers.

«Querido, un gourmand es un caballero con el talento y la fortaleza para seguir comiendo incluso aunque no tenga hambre.»

In the rather informal survey I have taken over the years on intensity of interest in food by profession, lawyers rank only a few trades below concert pianists....

The potato, practically unknown in India before its introduction in the nineteenth century, was soon to become a popular and vital ingredient of so many Indian dishes. The humble aloo made life much more interesting for chefs, housewives, gourmands and gourmets. The

Birthdays are [soul chasers,] ghost bounty hunters that track you down to ask [the usual question], “Qué pasa, baby?

Ophélia. Le second prendra tous les ridicules, toutes les infirmités, toutes les laideurs. Dans ce partage de l’humanité et de la création, c’est à lui que reviendront les passions, les vices, les crimes ; c’est lui qui sera luxurieux, rampant, gourmand, avare, perfide, brouillon, hypocrite ; c’est lui qui sera tour à tour Iago, Tartufe, Basile ; Polonius, Harpagon, Bartholo ; Falstaff, Scapin, Figaro. Le beau n’a qu’un type ; le laid en a mille.

There is no more grotesque misunderstanding of life than to murder people in the name of ideas.

When they heard that someone was full figured and liked cooking & eating, most men imagined someone who was quiet and domestic; someone whose interior life would not surpass their own. But did that reasoning really hold up? Eating was fundamentally an individual and egoistic compulsion... a gourmand was ultimately a seeker of the truth. You could wrap up their mission in all kinds of fancy language, but it was simply confronting their desires day in and day out. As you learn to cook, you become increasingly able to shut out the outside world and create a fortress within your own spirit. You hunted down your prey using fire and blade to fashion them down into the form you desired... it takes a deathly earnestness to remain faithful to your desires at all times.

In Paris, however, when I said that as a gourmand, I couldn’t be a politician because they regularly shit out of their mouths and that would taint my dining experiences, the newspaper quoted me in full.

There have been mutterings that the whole food thing has gone too far in America, but I think not. Good food is a benign weapon against the sodden way we live.

His eyes darted around the hallway, across the woven blue rug and up to the framed photos of baguettes and cheese wedges that covered the walls. His skin warmed from the heat coming out of the nearby kitchen. The smell of butter and cream mingled together like the tastiest candle you could ever light. He'd never had the food at Lyon, but he already knew what he was missing.

Ce jour-là, je m’étais levé tôt de manière à préparer le petit déjeuner de ma chérie. Elle adorait le prendre au lit et moi, je me régalais de la dorloter. Sur un plateau, j’ai disposé un bol de café fumant, un petit pichet de lait, une panière de croissants frais achetés à la boulangerie d’à côté, un assortiment de confitures présentées dans des ramequins colorés et un verre de jus d’orange pressée. J’étais joyeux, j’avais l’impression de marcher sur un nuage. Au moment de poser sur le journal la rose qui devait parachever mon tableau gourmand, j’ai regardé une seconde à travers la fenêtre. La fleur a atterri dans l’évier.

Pour moi, la rue de Bruxelles est demeurée tout entière dans le petit hôtel de Zola, où il recevait gentiment ses amis. Il était gourmand, il zézayait et, d'un air futé, disait de la bécasse flambée : «La fair (la chair) est quelconque, mais la faufe (la sauce) est bonne. » Sa maison était décorée de blocs de pierre sans intérêt, rapportés d'Italie, et qui excitaient l'hilarité de Goncourt, de quleques belles toiles de Manet, Cézanne et autres, et de meubles riches, qu'il croyait anciens, mais que le même Goncourt affirmait rafistolés. Son goût, sauf en peinture, était moyenâgeux et incompétent. Mon père disait : «Il aime les stalles et les cathèdres. »

Il quitta la rue Mercière, l'estomac calé, satisfait d'avoir rempli sa mission. Arrivé sur la place des Célestins, à quelques pas de l'hôtel, il lâcha un rot caverneux, libérant u petit nuage de vapeur parfumé à l'oignon qui s'envola dans la fraîcheur de la nuit.

- Mais il est canon, ce mec! poursuivit la journaliste. Il a de super beaux yeux, une bouche hyper-sensuelle, des fesses bien rondes et bien fermes, un torse large et musclé, des bras puissants... - Il est marié. il a trois filles et il vit au Brésil, l'interrompit le photographe. - Rien qui empêche de regarder le menu! D'ailleurs, ils sont pas mal foutus, les autres...

It's Apicius-Style Duck. Enjoy." Apicius-Style Duck is a dish said to have been a favorite of a famous seventeenth-century Italian gourmand. The recipe calls for duck breasts to be roasted and then have the skin side coated in spices and a caramelized honey glaze. "Look at how the caramelized honey gleams!" "The layer of spices crusting the outer skin smells amazing too!

La jeune fille était probablement plus exigeante, plus gourmande que la moyenne. Elle avait déjà deux tentatives de suicide derrière elle. Je me souviens d'elle allongée sur un lit d'hôpital, qui cherchait à fixer un point indéfini sur le mur immaculé pour ne plus entendre les gémissements des autres, pour tromper le temps, les allées et les venues des infirmières au masque dur et impassible, mais qui finissait par se retrouver face à elle-même, qu'était-elle devenue, sinon encore un numéro à qui il fallait administrer ceci et cela.

This is my cat, Juju," the woman says, noting my obvious confusion, maybe even my fear. "He's my good luck charm." "Uh, yeah," I say, backing away ever so slightly. That's some collar. I love the rhinestones. Trés chic." "Rhinestones? Don't be silly. I buy all his accessories from a jeweler. His collar is from Catier. As they say, diamonds are a cat's best friend." My upper lip twitches. Nobody has ever said that. And I'm pretty sure she means Cartier. She blows the cat a kiss, and I swear, if cats could smile, this one does, his giant face twisting with love or hunger. "He's huge," I say, watching his tail flick a bit menacingly. "He's a rare French breed, a Chartreux. He's just, how do you say? Big-boned?" She chortles out a laugh. "I really should put him on a regime like the vétérinaire said. He weighs nine kilos. Can you believe it? I strain my back when I try to pick him up. But he truly doesn't like les haricots verts or les courgettes. He's quite the gourmand." My head spins with confusion. I wonder, What cat would like green beans and zucchini? as I convert the math in my head. Her cat weighs around twenty pounds. And, apparently, he hates vegetables but adores his bling.

Of course there is nothing so immediately rewarded in America, in the arts, entertainment, or public life, as a shrill and limited consciousness.

A number of years ago I had the notion that I wished to write a poem as immediately fascinating as a recipe or a dirty picture. Fat chance. Art is in no position to duke it out with our baser appetites, appetites that are the cornerstones of our individual pyramids; art is only the pointed, three-comer capstone, signaling finally what we had in mind. Meanwhile, down at the bottom, it is clear that instincts toward sex and food must be aesthetically satisfied, or the pyramid is the usual garbage heap. It is also clear, in a historical perspective, that our current, most active generation-those between twenty and forty-is laying a giant fiber-laden, aerobic turd of greed on the history of the republic.

The food itself had been spectacular, starting with rich circlets of foie gras laid out on slabs of ice arranged down the center of the mile-long table. An endless procession of courses had struck perfect chords of salt, butter, smokiness, and richness.

​Gourmand(Unique Ability): And in depth understanding of food and nutrition allows hero to prepare a meal from the flesh of slain foes in an attempt to acquire new abilities or base statistic increases. Base chance of success: 20%(augmented by creature type as well as challenge level relative to the hero)

My Easter smells are the cinnamon and mixed spices in the hot cross buns, and the rosemary and mint sauce with the roast lamb. The grassy tang of rhubarb and real muddy wet grass from the egg rolling. And of course, lots and lots of milk chocolate. My scents for Easter are: Angel by Thierry Mugler Anima Dulcis by Arquiste Musc Maori by Parfumerie Générale Blue North by Agonist Opium by Yves Saint Laurent English Pear & Freesia by Jo Malone London La Tulipe by Byredo

Polly laughed to think how outraged Lucas would be that she'd chosen one of Britney Spears's perfumes to represent him, but the name- Rocker Femme- and the sweet gourmand mix was just perfect for him. It opened with blackberry liqueur and coconut cream, which made her think of one of his horrible biscuits...

Je ne m'étais pas rendu compte à quel point le désir pouvait vous submerger, vous ronger chaque partie du corps, vous démultiplier les sens. Dans ces moments là, on a la vue qui s'accroît alors qu'on ne regarde plus guère que la personne en face de soi ; on a l'odorat hyper sensible, au point de s'apercevoir que l'autre vient de se laver les cheveux et de changer de chemise. On a le toucher plus sensible que jamais, la peau frémissante, les doigts impatients du désir d'être caressé. On a le goût tellement développé que la bouche en devient gourmande et avide de la seule chose susceptible de vous satisfaire, le soulagement d'une autre bouche habitée de la même ardeur.

This sentence cribbed from the back of a cereal box (organic flax and raisin bran) is not the less poignant for its source.

Jeu de Paume. C'est un petit gout, he'd said. A little taste. The hostel knew Marguerite was a gourmand; he saw the treasures she brought home each night from the boulangerie, the fromagerie, and the green market. Bread, cheese, figs: She ate every night sitting on the floor of her shared room. She was in Paris for the food, not the art, though Marguerite had always loved Renoir and this painting in particular appealed to her. She was attracted to Renoir's women, their beauty, their plump and rosy good health; this painting was alive. The umbrellas- les parapluies- gave the scene a jaunty, festive quality, almost celebratory, as people hoisted them into the air. It's charming, Marguerite said. A feast for the eyes, Porter said.

Her abiding interest in what would end up on a dining table, hers or anyone else’s, for that matter, used to strike him as completely at odds with the cool ferocity of her mind. To his younger self it seemed that a person ought to be one or the other, a thinker or a gourmand, but not both. He had pointed that out to her once, as he removed encrusted dirt from the handles of an amphoriskos he had dug up. She, sitting a few paces away, had listened attentively, a book in one hand and a jam tart in the other—the fourth consecutive one she’d eaten from the small picnic basket she’d brought. When he’d finished speaking she’d looked at him for some time, then gone back to reading and eating, as if he’d never taken the trouble to voice his opinion aloud. It was the first time he’d told anyone how they ought to be. It also happened to be the last time: He had been beyond mortified that she’d treated his considered commentary as if it were an ant that had crawled onto her jam tart.

While some people are good at painting, playing an instrument or singing, I have been told more than once I am good at storytelling. I hope that you enjoy my stories as I recall them.

Under a row of pear trees—once an orchard?—I laid me down and idled, an art perfected during my long convalescence. An idler and a sluggard are as different as a gourmand and a glutton.

Camille, Marguerite et Jean-Michel vous invitent à un voyage entre contes, artisanat et cuisine, où petits et grands découvrent des récits captivants, des 'DIY' bricolages maison inspirés du folklore et des recettes gourmandes. Entre traditions, créativité et savoir-faire, chacun trouvera de quoi rêver, apprendre et partager des moments magiques en famille ou en solo. Un univers où la magie des légendes et des saisons prend vie à chaque instant !

Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and featest on their bloated livers in they pate-de-fois-gras.