Veuve Clicquot Quotes

Esprit de l’escalier. Staircase wit; the brilliant thing you should have said, coming to you only as you leave by the stairs

Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.

Politics is a moving target with no bullseye of truth, breaking up more families than uniting them.

The anchor symbolizes clarity and courage during chaos and confusion,” my Grand-mere says. “Chaos and Confusion, aren’t those your cats names?” Now I know her story is a delusion.

Life can change in the flash of a shooting star, and the people we love can be out of our reach forever.

Wars are senseless and cruel, fought for our power hungry emperor, not for the people.

Fighting is a soldier’s only religion. But it has proven useful to adopt the religion of the country I wish to conquer.

bantams with big puffy chests and exotic head-dresses, bright orange coats with black tails. A couple of roosters sport bright red combs and wattles.

Heard straight from Napoleon’s mouth himself,” I say. “Champagne! In victory we deserve it, and in defeat we need it.

No snowflake in a blizzard ever feels responsible.

From then on, my sense of smell swelled beyond reason. Mostly ordinary odors, but sometimes I imagine I can smell the stink of a lie. Or the perfume of a pure heart. Or the heartbreaking smell of what could have been.

What the hell's wrong with mimosas?' Aphrodite was saying. 'Orange juice is for breakfast.' 'What about the champagne part? That's alcohol,' Stevie Rae said. 'It's pink Veuve Clicquot. That means its good champagne, which cancels out the alcohol part,

become a widow, men line up to tell you what to do now that your husband is gone. But you must not listen to a single one. Trust your own counsel.” The matagot rubs against my arm, purring softly. His fur is softer than it looks. “His name is Felix.” Veuve Clicquot eyes the tray, looking for her next victim. “Whose name?” My wrists start to itch, and I scratch them discreetly. “The matagot.” She pops a madeleine in her mouth and giggles. “Oh my, that’s good.” By the time Veuve Clicquot leaves, my wrists have swollen with hives. I lure the matagot with a piece of cheese. Snatching him up, I march him to the back door and shoo him into the alleyway. “Bon chance, Felix!” Good luck. Waking before dawn, I reach for Louis, but the hollow in the feather

sadness is nothing a little Veuve Clicquot can’t fix.

Champagne, always champagne. Make mine Veuve-Clicquot.

Yep! I was twenty-six years old and an associate beauty editor at Lucky, one of the top fashion magazines in America, and that’s all that most people knew about me. But beneath the surface, I was full of secrets: I was an addict, for one. A pillhead! I was also an alcoholic-in-training who drank warm Veuve Clicquot after work, alone in my boss’s office with the door closed; a conniving uptown doctor shopper who haunted twenty-four-hour pharmacies while my coworkers were at home watching True Blood in bed with their boyfriends; a salami-and-provolone-puking bulimic who spent a hundred dollars a day on binge foods when things got bad (and they got bad often); a weepy, wobbly hallucination-prone insomniac who jumped six feet in the air à la LeBron James and gobbled Valium every time a floorboard squeaked in her apartment; a tweaky self-mutilator who sat in front of The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, digging gory abscesses into her bikini line with Tweezerman Satin Edge Needle Nose Tweezers;

but I loved her once and she loved me and somewhere inside us both lingers the shadow of two twenty-something sexual beings drinking Veuve Clicquot in the Gresham, laughing our backsides off and wondering whether we could ask the receptionist for a bedroom key or whether the police or the Archbishop of Dublin might be called if we did.

Yep! I was twenty-six years old and an associate beauty editor at Lucky, one of the top fashion magazines in America, and that’s all that most people knew about me. But beneath the surface, I was full of secrets: I was an addict, for one. A pillhead! I was also an alcoholic-in-training who drank warm Veuve Clicquot after work, alone in my boss’s office with the door closed; a conniving uptown doctor shopper who haunted twenty-four-hour pharmacies while my coworkers were at home watching True Blood in bed with their boyfriends; a salami-and-provolone-puking bulimic who spent a hundred dollars a day on binge foods when things got bad (and they got bad often); a weepy, wobbly hallucination-prone insomniac who jumped six feet in the air à la LeBron James and gobbled Valium every time a floorboard squeaked in her apartment; a tweaky self-mutilator who sat in front of The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, digging gory abscesses into her bikini line with Tweezerman Satin Edge Needle Nose Tweezers; a slutty and self-loathing downtown party girl fellatrix rushing to ruin; and—perhaps most of all—a lonely weirdo who felt like she was underwater all of the time. My brains were so scrambled you could’ve ordered them for brunch at Sarabeth’s; I let art-world guys choke me out during unprotected sex; I only had one friend, a Dash Snow–wannabe named Marco who tried to stick syringes in my neck and once slurped from my nostrils when I got a cocaine nosebleed;

They were given a corner table near the door. Bond ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and scrambled eggs and bacon.

Veuve Clicquot (how do you pronounce that brand because every time I make a go for it, I sound like Elizabeth Berkley saying “Versayce” in Showgirls)

But one look at the business of champagne tells a very different tale. In the boardrooms and wine cellars, champagne is a man’s world. Today, there are only a handful of women in senior positions in the French wine industry, and only one of the elite and internationally renowned champagne houses known as the grandes marques is run by a woman—the house of Champagne Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin, headed since 2001 by Madame Cécile Bonnefond.

Today, Champagne Veuve Clicquot is owned by the luxury conglomerate LVMH (Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton, acquired 1987), which also owns Champagne Moët et Chandon.

someone named D. K. Bolt. The description says it’s the fifteenth book in the Gruesome Goth series. “Gruesome Goth?” Savannah says. “That sounds dreadful.” Willa says, “I should have gone on Great Morning USA. I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel up to it.” Savannah pulls the bottle of Veuve Clicquot out. “Let’s drink this anyway,” she says. “I know Vivi would want us to.” “You guys enjoy,” Willa says. “I’m

Veuve Clicquot

Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places; every one, from the commonest Liebfraumilch to imperious 1945 Veuve Clicquot, a humble miracle. Everyday magic, Joe called it. The transformation of base matter into stuff of dreams. Layman's alchemy.

We order pizza—no one wants to leave the house, and Knott’s Harbor isn’t big on delivery—and eat it with Veuve Clicquot. We don’t talk about tomorrow, when we’ll say goodbye. To one another, to this house, to an era of life we wish could have lasted forever.