Steak Knives Quotes

As you all know first prize is a Cadillac El Dorado. Anyone wanna see second prize? Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is you're fired.

A Rough Guide Be polite at the reception desk. Not all the knives are in the museum. The waitresses know that a nice boy is formed in the same way as a deckchair. Pay for the beer and send flowers. Introduce yourself as Richard. Do not refer to what somebody did at a particular time in the past. Remember, every Friday we used to go for a walk. I walked. You walked. Everything in the past is irregular. This steak is very good. Sit down. There is no wine, but there is ice cream. Eat slowly. I have many matches.

Dedicated ereaders are as sharp as steak knives in doing what they're supposed to do, which is let you read books. The iPad is more like a Swiss Army knife -- it can cut the steak and uncork a wine bottle, and there's even a toothpick to use when you're done eating! It's got it all.

On the bright side,” he went on, gesturing to the massive quantities of alcohol they had laid out on the table for their lackeys, “You get to drink loads of expensive whiskey, instead.” “I don’t like whiskey,” Tyson told him.  “I like steak knives.” “Poddite,” Slade sighed. Tyson squinted at him.  “What?” “Poddite,” Slade said, carefully arranging his plastic cutlery.  “It means that your uninspired tastes mark you as one of the mindless ranks of pod-people that mechanically wander this earth, doing whatever their television or personal devices tell them to, like drinking piss because it’s been marketed as ‘refreshing.’” 

As you all know, first prize is a Cadillac Eldorado. Anyone wanna see second prize? Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is you’re fired. Get the picture?

Think: What has happened to me? Why am I lying like this on top of my covers with too much Jontue and mascara and jewelry, pretending casually that this is how I always go to bed, while a pervert with six new steak knives is about to sneak through my unlocked door. Remember: at Blakely Falls High, Willis Holmes would have done anything to be with you. You don’t have to put up with this: you were second runner-up at the Junior Prom.

Maybe not everything would change, or at least, not all at once. Prejudice and fear were hard to cut out, even with a thousand swords and steak knives. But change had begun.

But also transcendent powers of luck, health, abundance, and long life. And maybe even a set of steak knives.

A friend asked me, 'Do you want to come with?' I thought for a moment before replying, 'With what ... an air rifle, toaster strudels, extra pillowcases, steak knives ... paper shredder ... Halloween mask ... am I getting warm?' NEVER end a sentence with a preposition.

Glad I can trust the two of you with steak knives. Let's eat.

Susan Rogers had been right to fear the water. There were monsters lurking just below its churning surface. Now, they pulled her down into the dark depths; things with black and orange stripes, things with claws, with fangs like sharpened steak knives, and, unfortunately for her, they were not inclined to swallow her whole.

Big as a cart horse. Deep fetid marsh rot snot shit filth green. Traced out in scar tissue like embroidered cloth. Wings black and white and silver, heavy and vicious as blades. The Stink of it came choking. Fire and ash. Hot metal. Fear. Joy. Pain. There are dragons in the desert, said the old maps of the empire, and they had laughed and said no, no, not that close to great cities, if there ever were dragons there they are gone like the memory of a dream. Its teeth closed ripping on Gulius's arm, huge, jagged; its eyes were like knives as it twisted away with the arm hanging bloody in its mouth. It spat blood and slime and roared out flame again, reared up beating its wings. Men fell back screaming, armor scorched and molten, melted into burned melted flesh. The smell of roasting meat surrounded them. Better than steak. Gulius was lying somehow still alive, staring at the hole where his right arm had been. The dragons front legs came down smash onto his body. Plume of blood. Gulius disappeared. Little smudge of red on the green. A grating shriek as its claws scrabbled over hot stones. Screaming. Screaming. Beating wings. The stream rose up boiling. Two men were in the stream trying to douse burning flesh and the boiling water was in their faces and they were screaming too. Everything hot and boiling and burning, dry wind and dry earth and dry fire and dry hot scales, the whole great lizard body scorching like a furnace, roaring hot burning killing demon death thing.

A corpse with a little meat on it will always bring out the steak knives in Hollywood.

I spoke out loud in my empty bedroom, to my heart. I said, “Go for it.” (That’s what hearts want to hear. Of course, whether or not you should always tell a heart what it wants to hear is another matter entirely. Hearts are like two-year-olds who often want to do very stupid things like suck on steak knives or belly flop down staircases.)

So I got me some steak, and I got me the spring out of a clock. I cut that spring up into little pieces. I put points on the ends of the pieces. They were as sharp as razor blades. I stuck them into the steak- way inside. And I went past where they had the dog tied up. He wanted to bite me again. I said to him, ‘Come on doggie- let’s be friends. Let’s not be enemies any more. I’m not mad.’ He believed me.’ ‘He did?’ ‘I threw him the steak. He swallowed it down in one big gulp. I waited around for ten minutes.’ Now Lazzaro’s eyes twinkled. ‘Blood started coming out of his mouth. He started crying, and rolled on the ground, as though the knives were on the outside of him instead of the inside of him. Then he tried to bite out his own insides. I laughed, and said to him, ‘You got the right idea now. Tear your own guts out, boy. That’s me with all of those knives’ So it goes.

Things were tense with me, James, and Haley in the kitchen. I was trying to be normal and lighthearted, but there were several elephants in the room—my guilt over Douglas’s death and James’s guilt over threatening Haley being the two biggest metaphorical pachyderms in the bunch. I wasn’t sure how to resolve it. Do I apologize to him? Does he apologize to me?   Then Haley put silverware in front of us and made us set the table. As she placed a big pile of butter knives in the center of the table she fixed me with a gimlet eye. “Try to not kill anyone while you’re setting the table.” Then she poked James. “And I don’t want to find these in any doors. Knives next to spoons, boys. Not in people or furniture—once is a slipup. Twice is impolite. Three times is downright rude.” She turned and went back to cooking breakfast.   For a long, drawn-out breath, no one said anything. The only sound was the snap of butter on a hot skillet. Then James picked up a handful of knives and placed one carefully by a spoon. He nudged it with one finger until it sat perfect and straight. He stepped back and examined his handiwork, leaning so Haley could see.   She nodded, pleased. “Very good. Baby steps. Keep this up, and I’ll tell you where I hid the steak knives.”   I couldn’t help it then—I collapsed into a chair, laughing. James didn’t laugh—but I could see the beginnings of a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. Haley was right. Baby steps. Leave it to my little sister to settle a complicated issue with place settings.

The clothes they sell are new but appear to have been previously worn, perhaps by someone who was shot or stabbed and then thrown off a boat. Everything looks as it has been pulled from the evidence rack at a murder trial. I don't know how they do it. Most distressed clothing seems obviously fake, but not theirs, for some reason. Do they put it in a dryer with broken glass and rusty steak knives? Do they drag it behind a tank over a still-smoldering battlefield? How do they get the cuts and stains so... right? If I had to use one word to describe Kapital's clothing, I'd be torn between "wrong" and "tragic".

He orders an expensive bottle of Rioja and we begin our tapas extravaganza with plates of dates wrapped in bacon, langoustines in garlic and butter, chorizo in a tomatoey sauce, and a miniature Spanish tortilla (potato, egg, and onion). Our medium-rare steaks are set before us along with a basket of thinly sliced, golden crisped fries. I'm happy to see that Frank enjoys food- with no mention of any weird hang-ups or allergies. "I was hoping they'd have sweetbreads on the menu," Frank says. "You like sweetbreads?" I ask, my heart expanding at the mention of calf thymus. "I'm an organ man," Frank says, taking a sip of wine. "I know a place where they make great sautéed sweetbreads," I say. "You?" he asks, a look of pleased astonishment spreading across his face. "Love 'em," I say. This mutual infatuation with organs bodes well. Cutting into the steaks with sharp knives, we put morsels in our mouths, close our eyes as if we've died and gone to heaven, chew, and groan, the salty, bloody juices trickling down the backs of our throats.

Chen pointed to the cub. "There's your brute." Then he pointed to the pups. "And there's your domestication. For the most part, Westerners are descendants of barbarian, nomadic tribes such as the Teutons and the Anglo-Saxons. They burst out of the primeval forest like wild animals after a couple of thousand years of Greek and Roman civilization, and sacked ancient Rome. They eat steak, cheese, and butter with knives and forks, which is how they've retained more primitive wildness than the traditional farming races. Over the past hundred years, domesticated China has been bullied by the brutish West. It's not surprising that for thousands of years the Chinese colossus has been spectacularly pummeled by tiny nomadic peoples.

OUR KITCHEN TABLE WAS ROUND and made of oak. One afternoon when we were in grade school, my sister and I carved our names in it with steak knives. We hadn’t finished when we heard the door open—our mother was home from work—so we threw the steak knives back in the drawer. My sister grabbed the biggest thing she could find, a half gallon of apple juice, and plopped it down. When my mother entered, wearing her nurse’s outfit, her arms full of magazines, we must have said, “Hi, Mom” too quickly, because she immediately became suspicious. You can see that in your mother’s face right away, that “What did you kids do?” look. Maybe because we were sitting at an otherwise empty table at 5:30 in the afternoon with a half gallon of apple juice between us. Anyhow, without letting go of her magazines, she nudged the juice aside and saw CHAR and ROBER—which was as far as we got—and she let out a loud, exasperated sound, something like “uhhhhch.” Then she screamed, “Great, just great!” and in my childish mind, I thought maybe it wasn’t so bad. Great was great, right? My father was traveling in those days, and my mother threatened his wrath when he got home. But that night as we sat at the table eating a meat loaf with a hard-boiled egg inside it—a recipe she had read somewhere, perhaps in one of those magazines she carried—my sister and I kept glancing at our work. “You know you’ve completely ruined this table,” my mother said. “Sorry,” we mumbled. “And you could have cut your fingers off with those knives.” We sat there, admonished, lowering our heads to the obligatory level for penance. But we were both thinking the same thing. Only my sister said it. “Should we finish, so at least we spell our names right?” I stopped breathing for a moment, astonished at her courage. My mother shot her a dagger-like stare. Then she burst out laughing. And my sister burst out laughing. And I spit out a mouthful of meatloaf. We never finished the names. They remained there always as CHAR and ROBER. My father, of course, blew a gasket when he got home. But I think over the years, long after we’d departed Pepperville Beach, my mother came to like the idea that we had left something behind, even if we were a few letters short.