‘Grub first, then ethics.’ One hundred gustatory quotations to identify. Some non-fiction. Translations marked [*].


The authors (in one case the translator is credited, rather than the original author):

Louisa May Alcott, Caius Petronius Arbiter

Samuel Beckett, Ambrose Bierce, James Boswell, Richard Brautigan, Patrick O’Brian, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, Charlotte Bronte

Italo Calvino, Roy Campbell, Eric Carle, Lewis Carroll, Raymond Carver, Anton Chekhov, G. K. Chesterton, James Clavell

Roald Dahl, Len Deighton, Charles Dickens, Isak Dinesen, Alexandre Dumas

T. S. Eliot, Bret Easton Ellis

William Faulkner, Henry Fielding, M. F. K. Fisher, Edward Fitzgerald, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Janet Frame

Neil Gaiman, John Gardener, William H. Gass, Jean Craighead George, W. S. Gilbert, Gunter Grass

Thomas Harris, Ernest Hemingway

Thomas Ingoldsby

Jerome K. Jerome, James Joyce

Nikos Kazanzakis, Jack Kerouac, Garrison Keillor, Rudyard Kipling

R. A. Laffery, Charles Lamb, John Lanchester, D. H. Lawrence, T. E. Lawrence, Laurie Lee, C. S. Lewis, Jack London

Thomas Mann, Saint Matthew, W. Somerset Maugham, Cormac McCarthy, Herman Melville, Margaret Mitchell, Iris Murdoch

Pablo Neruda

George Orwell

Mervyn Peake, Harold Pinter, Sylvia Plath, John Cowper Powys, Terry Pratchett, Marcel Proust, Thomas Pynchon

Erich Maria Remarque, Damon Runyon

Saki, William Shakespeare, Varlam Shalamov, G. B. Shaw, Gary Snyder, King Solomon, Gertrude Stein, John Steinbeck, Wallace Stevens, Robert Louis Stevenson, Rex Stout, Suetonius, Jonathan Swift

Dylan Thomas, Alice B. Toklas, J. R. R. Tolkien, Leo Tolstoy, J. K. Toole, William Trevor, Mark Twain

Jules Verne

David Foster Wallace, Evelyn Waugh, Oscar Wilde, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Geoffrey Willans, P. G. Wodehouse, Thomas Wolfe, Virginia Woolf

1)
I think we will begin with a Caesar salad, he says. And then a bowl of soup with some extra bread and butter, if you please. The lamp chops, I believe, he says. And baked potato with sour cream. We’ll see about dessert later. Thank you very much, he says, and hands me the menu.


2)
It is allowed on all hands, that the primitive way of breaking eggs, before we eat them, was upon the larger end; but his present majesty’s grandfather, while he was a boy, going to eat an egg, and breaking it according to the ancient practice, happened to cut one of his fingers. Whereupon the emperor his father published an edict, commanding all his subjects, upon great penalties, to break the smaller end of their eggs. The people so highly resented this law, that our histories tell us, there have been six rebellions raised on that account; wherein one emperor lost his life, and another his crown.


3)
Among the afternoon pedestrians who hurried past Paradise Vendors, Incorporated, one formidable figure waddled slowly along. It was Ignatius. Stopping before the narrow garage, he sniffed the fumes from Paradise with great sensory pleasure, the protruding hairs in his nostrils analyzing, cataloging, categorizing, and classifying the distinct odors of hot dog, mustard, and lubricant. Breathing deeply, he wondered whether he also detected the more delicate odor, the fragile scent of hot dog buns. He looked at the white-gloved hands of his Mickey Mouse wristwatch and noticed that he had eaten lunch only an hour before. Still the intriguing aromas were making him salivate actively.


4)
A.J. Bayless market bent wire roller basket buy up parsnips,
onion, carrot, rutabaga and potato, bell green pepper,
& nine cuts of dark beef shank.
They run there on their legs, that makes meat tasty.


5)
Spring was full of cool dewy mornings, spurting winds, and storms of intoxicating blossoms, and in this enchantment Eugene first felt the mixed lonely ache and promise of the seasons.

In the morning they rose in a house pungent with breakfast cookery, and they sat at a smoking table loaded with brains and eggs, ham, hot biscuit, fried apples seething in their gummed syrups, honey, golden butter, fried steak, scalding coffee. Or there were stacked batter-cakes, rum-coloured molasses, fragrant brown sausages, a bowl of wet cherries, plums, fat juicy bacon, jam. At the mid-day meal, they ate heavily: a huge hot roast of beef, fat buttered lima-beans, tender corn smoking on the cob, thick red slabs of sliced tomatoes, rough savory spinach, hot yellow corn-bread, flaky biscuits, a deep-dish peach and apple cobbler spiced with cinnamon, tender cabbage, deep glass dishes piled with preserved fruits — cherries, pears, peaches. At night they might eat fried steak, hot squares of grits fried in egg and butter, pork-chops, fish, young fried chicken.

6)
The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.


7)
The steaks arrived on iron platters sizzling in their own juice and there were steaming baked potatoes with pithy cores to melt the butter over and there was sour cream with chives and hot rolls and coffee.

She set before them each a white platter. Sliced turkey and dressing pooled over in thick gravy and steaming creamed potatoes and peas and a claretcolored dollop of cranberry sauce and hot rolls with pats of creamery butter. Harrogate’s eyes were enormous.


8)
There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called — the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance — with the adhesive oleaginous — oh, call it not fat! — but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it — the tender blossoming of fat — fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in the first innocence — the cream and quintessence of the child-pig’s yet pure food — the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance.


9)
IX. The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of mankind than the discovery of a star.

[*]


10)
I’ve chosen my fry pan. Midsize. Enameled iron. The bread has to be cut to the correct width. I have an aversion to Holsum Bunny Wonder. One day old is fine for frying. A little cream, a little egg, a little butter, dash of vanilla. What I like best — maybe what I like best in any average day — is the moment when the knife begins to cut into the crust: you are holding the loaf, of course, so that hand is happy; there is a satisfying sawing sound; the blade’s bright metallic bite says fresh; you can almost feel that same crunch beneath your teeth; crumbs fly about like bread sparks; and the board is covered in soft dust as if a piece of timber had been milled. With each saw, more of the bread’s essence is released to modify the fragrance of the coffee. No sir. Morning kitchen cannot be surpassed. Better for the soul than Mass.

11)
FIRST VOICE
From Beynon Butchers in Coronation Street, the smell of fried liver sidles out with onions on its breath. And listen! In the dark breakfast-room behind the shop, Mr and Mrs Beynon, waited upon by their treasure, enjoy, between bites, their everymorning hullabaloo, and Mrs Beynon slips the gristly bits under the tasselled tablecloth to her fat cat.

[Cat purrs]

MRS BEYNON
She likes the liver, Ben.

MR BEYNON
She ought to do, Bess. It’s her brother’s.

MRS BEYNON (Screaming)
Oh, d’you hear that, Lily?

LILY SMALLS
Yes, mum.

MRS BEYNON
We’re eating pusscat.

LILY SMALLS
Yes, mum.

MRS BEYNON
Oh, you cat-butcher!


12)
The fallen snow had long since been carried away by the winds, and the cold, frosty grass was slippery in our hands and changed color when we touched it. Hummocks of low moutain sweet-brier grew around the tree stumps, and the aroma of the frozen dark lilac berries was extraordinary.

[*]


13)
General Loewenhielm, somewhat suspicious of his wine, took a sip of it, startled, raised the glass first to his nose and then to his eyes, and sat it down bewildered. “This is very strange!” he thought. “Amontillado! And the finest Amontillado that I have ever tasted.” After a moment, in order to test his senses, he took a small spoonful of his soup, took a second spoonful and laid down his spoon. “This is exceedingly strange!” he said to himself. “For surely I am eating turtle-soup – and what turtle-soup!” He was seized by a queer kind of panic and emptied his glass.


14)
JACK:
How you can sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this horrible trouble, I can’t make out. You seem to me to be perfectly heartless.

ALGERNON:
Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter would probably get on my cuffs.


15)
In the end it was decided that if ship’s biscuit and small beer were rejected — and Mrs Oakes rejected both out of hand — then skillygalee was their only resource. Brigid therefore faced a bowl of very thin oatmeal gruel, sweetened with sugar and tempered with butter. She thought it the finest dish she had ever eaten, a more-than-birthday indulgence: she ate it up with naked greed and begged for more, and when at last she was told that she might get down skipped about the deck singing ‘Skilly-galee, skillygaloo, skillygalee ooh hoo hoo hoo’ with a persistence that only very good-natured men could have borne, as the Ringles did, until dinner changed the course of her mind. This being Thursday, she and all hands were allowed a pound of salt pork and half a pint of dried peas: a gallon of beer would also have made part of her ration, but she was advised not to insist upon it.

16)
“What did you order?” I ask.

“I had the poached oysters, the lotte and the walnut tart.”

“I hear the lotte is good there,” I murmur, lost in thought.

“The client had the boudin blanc, the roasted chicken and the cheesecake,” he says.

“Cheesecake?” I say, confused by this plain, alien‐sounding list. “What sauce or fruits were on the roasted chicken? What shapes was it cut into?”


17)
On the tray was a bottle of herb wine, different kinds of vodka, pickled mushrooms, rye cakes made with buttermilk, honey in the comb, still mead and sparkling mead, apples, nuts (raw and roasted), and nut-and-honey sweets. Afterwards she brought a freshly roasted chicken, ham, preserves made with honey, and preserves made with sugar.

All this was the fruit of Anísya Fëdorovna’s housekeeping, gathered and prepared by her. The smell and taste of it all had a smack of Anísya Fëdorovna herself: a savor of juiciness, cleanliness, whiteness, and pleasant smiles.

[*]


18)
When faced with a friteful piece of meat which even the skool dog would refuse do not screw up the face in any circs and say coo ur gosh ghastly. This calls atention to oneself and makes it more difficult to pinch a beter piece from the next boy.


19)
in the whole market
yours
was the only shape left
with purpose or direction
in this
jumbled ruin
of nature;
you are
a solitary man of war
among these frail vegetables

[*]


20)
With a clattering of chairs, upended shell cases, benches, and ottomans, Pirate’s mob gather at the shores of the great refectory table, a southern island well across a tropic or two from chill Corydon Throsp’s mediaeval fantasies, crowded now over the swirling dark grain of its walnut uplands with banana omelets, banana sandwiches, banana casseroles, mashed bananas molded in the shape of a British lion rampant, blended with eggs into batter for French toast, squeezed out a pastry nozzle across the quivering creamy reaches of a banana blancmange to spell out the words C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre (attributed to a French observer during the Charge of the Light Brigade) which Pirate has appropriated as his motto . . . tall cruets of pale banana syrup to pour oozing over banana waffles, a giant glazed crock where diced bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild honey and muscat raisins, up out of which, this winter morning, one now dips foam mugsfull of banana mead... banana croissants and banana kreplach, and banana oatmeal and banana jam and banana bread, and bananas flamed in ancient brandy Pirate brought back last year from a cellar in the Pyrenees also containing a clandestine radio transmitter . . .

21)
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.


22)
We ate the *calamari* and the chicken, deep in which the garlic and butter had been artfully hidden to be struck like a vein of aromatic gold. Jean had pancakes and a thimbleful of black coffee without mentioning calories and went through the whole meal without lighting a cigarette. This showed virtue enough; she must have some vices.


23)
And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude.

[*]


24)
I ate apple pie and ice cream — it was getting better as I got deeper into Iowa, the pie bigger, the ice cream richer.


25)
‘ . . . “Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor. “Wery ill,” says the patient. “Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the doctor. “Roast weal,” says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you dewoured?” says the doctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!” says the doctor. “I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you never take no more of ’em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient — “pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient, starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen year, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ’em off, on principle,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is *not* wholesome, Sir,” says the doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient, comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d be dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ’em,” says the doctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business in six months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sure o’ that ‘ere, Sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” says the doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ‘ud kill me off at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor. “Do you think half-a-crown’s wurth ‘ud do it?” says the patient. “I think it might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ‘ud be sure to do it, I s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor. “Wery good,” says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts ’em all, eats ’em all, and blows his brains out.’

26)
MAYONNAISE, n. One of the sauces which serve the French in place of a state religion.


27)
The dwarf bread was brought out for inspection. But it was miraculous, the dwarf bread. No one ever went hungry when they had some dwarf bread to avoid. You only had to look at it for a moment, and instantly you could think of dozens of things you’d rather eat. Your boots, for example. Mountains. Raw sheep. Your own foot.


28)
“ . . . Tell me frankly: do you think it is possible Frau Stöhr knows how to make twentyeight different kinds of fishsauces? I don’t mean if she actually can make them — that I should consider out of the question — I mean if she said at table just now she could, or if I only imagined she did — that is all I want to know.”

[*]


29)
In classic cuisine, brains are soaked and then pressed and chilled overnight to firm them. In dealing with the item absolutely fresh, the challenge is to prevent the material from simply disintegrating into a handful of lumpy gelatin. With splendid dexterity, the doctor brought the firmed slices to a plate, dredged them lightly in seasoned flour, and then in fresh brioche crumbs. He grated a fresh black truffle into his sauce and finished it with a squeeze of lemon juice. Quickly he sautéed the slices until they were just brown on each side.

“Smells great!” Krendler said.


30)
Every now and again, a plain grey cardboard box was dished out to each boy in our House, and this, believe it or not, was a present from the great chocolate manufacturers, Cadbury. Inside the box there were twelve bars of chocolate, all of different shapes, all with different fillings and all with numbers from one to twelve stamped on the chocolate underneath. Eleven of these bars were new inventions from the factory. The twelfth was the ‘control’ bar, one that we all knew well, usually a Cadbury’s Coffee Cream bar. Also in the box was a sheet of paper with the numbers one to twelve on it as well as two blank columns, one for giving marks to each chocolate from nought to ten, and the other for comments.

All we were required to do in return for this splendid gift was to taste very carefully each bar of chocolate, give it marks and make an intelligent comment on why we liked it or disliked it.

It was a clever stunt. Cadbury’s were using some of the greatest chocolate-bar experts in the world to test out their new inventions. We were of a sensible age, between thirteen and eighteen, and we knew intimately every chocolate bar in existence, from the Milk Flake to the Lemon Marshmallow. Quite obviously our opinions on anything new would be valuable. All of us entered into this game with great gusto, sitting in our studies and nibbling each bar with the air of connoisseurs, giving our marks and making our comments. ‘Too subtle for the common palate,’ was one note that I remember writing down.

31)
The coffee was brought and the hot rolls and cream and the paté de foie gras and they set to. They spread the cream on the pâté and they ate it. They devoured great spoonfuls of jam. They crunched the delicious crisp bread voluptuously. What was love to Arrow then? Let the Prince keep his palace in Rome and his castle in the Apennines. They did not speak. What they were about was much too serious. They ate with solemn, ecstatic fervour.

“I haven’t eaten potatoes for twenty-five years,” said Frank in a far-off brooding tone.

“Waiter,” cried Beatrice, “bring fried potatoes for three.”


32)
When I got back to the others I found them laughing in an uproarious manner. Swann said the cake they were eating was making them drunk. ‘Smell it,’ he said. It smelt of rum. I tasted some: it tasted of rum too. We all ate a lot of the cake, laughing at the thought of getting drunk on cake. We ordered some more, and told the waitress it was delicious.


33)
“This, which you believe to be meat, Professor, is nothing else than fillet of turtle. Here are also some dolphins’ livers, which you take to be ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in dressing these various products of the ocean. Taste all these dishes. Here is a preserve of sea-cucumber, which a Malay would declare to be unrivalled in the world; here is a cream, of which the milk has been furnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North Sea; and, lastly, permit me to offer you some preserve of anemones, which is equal to that of the most delicious fruits.”

[*]


34)
At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. “Will you give me that?” I asked. She stared at me. “Mother!” she exclaimed, “there is a woman wants me to give her these porridge.” “Well lass,” replied a voice within, “give it her if she’s a beggar. T’ pig doesn’t want it.”

The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured it ravenously.


35)
“ . . . When Prince George — may the hour be blessed for him! — visited our monastery up there in the mountains, the monks prepared a royal feast in his honour, and they served meat to every one save to the prince, who was given a plateful of soup. The prince took his spoon and began to stir his soup. ‘What are these? Beans?’ he asked in surprise. ‘White haricot beans, are they?’ ‘Try them, Your Highness,’ said the old abbot. ‘Try them and we’ll talk about them afterwards.’ The prince took a spoonful, two, three, he emptied his plate and licked his lips. “What is this wonderful dish?’ he said, ‘What tasty beans! They’re as nice as brains!’ ‘They’re no beans, your Highness,’ replied the abbot, laughing. ‘They’re no beans! We’ve had all the cocks of the neighbourhood castrated!’”

[*]

36)
“It is dull, Son of Adam, to drink without eating,” said the Queen presently. “What would you like best to eat?”

“Turkish Delight, please, your Majesty,” said Edmund.

The Queen let another drop fall from her bottle on to the snow, and instantly there appeared a round box, tied with green silk ribbon, which, when opened, turned out to contain several pounds of the best Turkish Delight. Each piece was sweet and light to the very centre and Edmund had never tasted anything more delicious.


37)
First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed lightning at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, happily for our heroe, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was then conveying into his plate, and harmless spent their force.


38)
And when is water boiling? It can be said, with few people to argue the point, that water boils when it has been heated to two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit. Myself, I would say that when it bubbles with large energetic bubbles, and looks ready to hop from the kettle, and makes a rocky rather than a murmuring noise, and sends off a deal of steam, it is boiling. [A friend of mine who grew up alongside a samovar has only one way to describe water proper for tea: “A mad boil.” In the same forceful way she never says rolls or toast must be hot, or very hot. They must be “hot-hot-*hot*!” This is pronounced as much as possible like a one-syllable sound of intense excitement, about no matter how dull a bun.]


39)
Grandma stood by the brass kettle and with the big wooden spoon she poured hot syrup on each plate of snow. It cooled into soft candy, and as fast as it cooled they ate it.

They could eat all they wanted, for maple sugar never hurt anybody. . . .


40)
When I was a young director I was idiotic and conventional enough to think that I had to entertain people at well-known restaurants. It gradually became clear to me that guzzling large quantities of expensive, pretentious, often mediocre food in public places was not only immoral, unhealthy and unaesthetic, but also unpleasurable. Later my guests were offered simple joys chez moi. What is more delicious than fresh hot buttered toast, with or without the addition of bloater paste? Or plain boiled onions with a little cold corned beef if desired? And well-made porridge with brown sugar and cream is a dish fit for a king. Even then some people, so sadly corrupt was their taste, took my intelligent hedonism for an affected eccentricity, a mere gimmick. (Wind in the Willows food a journalist called it.) And some were actually offended.

41)
HASCHICH FUDGE
(which anyone could whip up on a rainy day)

This is the food of Paradise — of Baudelaire’s Artificial Paradises: it might provide an entertaining refreshment for a Ladies’ Bridge Club or a chapter meeting of the DAR. In Morocco it is thought to be good for warding off the common cold in damp winter weather and is, indeed, more effective if taken with large quantities of hot mint tea. Euphoria and brilliant storms of laughter; ecstatic reveries and extensions of one’s personality on several simultaneous planes are to be complacently expected. Almost anything Saint Theresa did, you can do better if you can bear to be ravished by ‘un évanouissement reveillé.’


42)
. . . Oh! sweet friends, hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuits, and salted pork cut up into little flakes! the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt.


43)
Best of all things in New Orleans was the food. Remembering the bitter hungry days at Tara and her more recent penury, Scarlett felt that she could never eat enough of these rich dishes. Gumboes and shrimp Creole, doves in wine and oysters in crumbly patties full of creamy sauce, mushrooms and sweetbreads and turkey livers, fish baked cunningly in oiled paper and limes. Her appetite never dulled, for whenever she remembered the everlasting goobers and dried peas and sweet potatoes at Tara, she felt an urge to gorge herself anew of Creole dishes.


44)
I have eaten several priests. They sit on the stomach like duck eggs.


45)
After they had waited an hour, the food arrived. A man carried two containers to the head of the line and set them down. The containers had formerly held five gallons of high-octane gasoline. Now one was half full of rice — dry, pellucid. The other was full of soup.

Today it was shark soup — at least, one shark had been divided ounce by ounce into soup for ten thousand men. It was warm and tasted slightly of the fish, and in it there were pieces of eggplant and cabbage, a hundred pounds for ten thousand. The bulk of the soup was made from leaves, red and green, bitter and yet nutritious, grown with so much care in the gardens of the camp. Salt and curry powder and chili pepper spiced it.

Silently each man moved forward in turn, watching the serving of the man in front and the man behind, measuring their portions against the one he was given. But now, after three years, the measures were all the same.

A cup per man of soup.

46)
Frogs were one of my favorite meals, and I found I could fix them many ways; however, I got to like frog soup fixed in this way: “Clean, skin, and boil until tender. Add wild onions, also water lily buds and wild carrots. Thicken with acorn flour. Serve in turtle shell.”


47)
The food was mostly in the form of very thin cakes, made of a meal that was baked a light brown on the outside, and inside was the colour of cream.


48)
Serve the pancakes with sour cream and caviare. Sour cream is completely straightforward, and if you need any advice or guidance about it then, for you, I feel only pity.


49)
Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison’s.


50)
After a few months’ acquaintance with European “coffee,” one’s mind weakens, and his faith with it, and he begins to wonder if the rich beverage of home, with its clotted layer of yellow cream on top of it, is not a mere dream, after all, and a thing which never existed.

Next comes the European bread — fair enough, good enough, after a fashion, but cold; cold and tough, and unsympathetic; and never any change, never any variety — always the same tiresome thing.

Next, the butter — the sham and tasteless butter; no salt in it, and made of goodness knows what.

Then there is the beefsteak. They have it in Europe, but they don’t know how to cook it. Neither will they cut it right. It comes on the table in a small, round pewter platter. It lies in the center of this platter, in a bordering bed of grease-soaked potatoes; it is the size, shape, and thickness of a man’s hand with the thumb and fingers cut off. It is a little overdone, is rather dry, it tastes pretty insipidly, it rouses no enthusiasm.

Imagine a poor exile contemplating that inert thing; and imagine an angel suddenly sweeping down out of a better land and setting before him a mighty porterhouse steak an inch and a half thick, hot and sputtering from the griddle; dusted with a fragrant pepper; enriched with little melting bits of butter of the most unimpeachable freshness and genuineness; the precious juices of the meat trickling out and joining the gravy, archipelagoed with mushrooms; a township or two of tender, yellowish fat gracing an outlying district of this ample county of beefsteak; the long white bone which divides the sirloin from the tenderloin still in its place; and imagine that the angel also adds a great cup of American home-made coffee, with a cream a-froth on top, some real butter, firm and yellow and fresh, some smoking hot-biscuits, a plate of hot buckwheat cakes, with transparent syrup — could words describe the gratitude of this exile?

51)
“When are we going to eat, Bugs?” the prizefighter asked.

“Right away.”

“Are you hungry, Nick?”

“Hungry as hell.”

“Hear that, Bugs?”

“I hear most of what goes on.”

“That ain’t what I asked you.”

“Yes. I heard what the gentleman said.”

Into a skillet he was laying slices of ham. As the skillet grew hot the grease sputtered and Bugs, crouching on long nigger legs over the fire, turned the ham and broke eggs into the skillet, tipping it from side to side to baste the eggs with the hot fat.

“Will you cut some bread out of that bag, Mister Adams?” Bugs turned from the fire.

“Sure.”

Nick reached in the bag and brought out a loaf of bread. He cut six slices. Ad watched him and leaned forward.

“Let me take your knife, Nick,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” the negro said. “Hang onto your knife, Mister Adams.”


52)
There was, it is true, little meat at those times; sometimes a pound of bare ribs for boiling, or an occasional rabbit dumped at the door by a neighbour. But there was green food of great weight in season, and lentils and bread for ballast. Eight to ten loaves came to the house every day, and they never grew dry. We tore them to pieces with their crusts still warm, and their monotony was brightened by the objects we found in them – string, nails, paper, and once a mouse; for those were days of happy-go-lucky baking.


53)
“Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is sore for Christian diet. You mightn’t happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many’s the long night I’ve dreamed of cheese — toasted, mostly — and woke up again, and here I were.”


54)
Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two p
ennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?


55)
Our trip through Mexico had already lasted over a week. A few days earlier, in Tepotzotlan, in a restaurant whose tables were set among the orange trees of another convent’s cloister, we had savored dishes prepared (at least, so we were told) according to the traditional recipes of the nuns. We had eaten a tamal de elote — a fine semolina of sweet com, that is, with ground pork and very hot pepper, all steamed in a bit of cornhusk — and then chiles en nogada, which were reddish brown, somewhat wrinkled little peppers, swimming in a walnut sauce whose harshness and bitter aftertaste were drowned in a creamy, sweetish surrender.

[*]

ain't reading all that. go fucc your selbst.

56)
Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread Queen;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;
And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor,
’Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.


57)
A cold sirloin, big enough to frighten a Frenchman, filled the place of honour, counter-checked by a game pie of no stinted dimensions; while a silver flagon of ‘humming-bub’ — viz. ale strong enough to blow a man’s beaver off — smiled opposite in treacherous amenity.


58)
“Papa, what does ‘oysters’ mean?” I repeated.

“It is an animal . . . that lives in the sea.”

I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . I thought it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As it was from the sea they made of it, of course, a very nice hot fish soup with savoury pepper and laurel leaves, or broth with vinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or served it cold with horse-radish. . . . I vividly imagined it being brought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot, quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry . . . awfully hungry! From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish soup.

[*]


59)
Do I dare to eat a peach?


60)
“The third story as I promised will only cost you half a peso. The first two stories were lies but this is the truth. When you leave here (if you leave) notice that the ruts as you circle around to drive out are not so deep as those where you came in. This is because fewer people and vehicles leave than arrive. You will also notice a pile of old buggy wheels in the backyard and another pile of old tires. This is all that is left of many who came. The last few parties who leave every night do not leave at all. We calculate just about how much we will need for the next night. And to tell you the truth they are calculating now. If by some accident you do leave you will be the last to go. Los hombres we put in one vat, and los caballos in another. And there we chop them up just to the size of cabritos. You can make six out of a man and thirty-one out of a horse. And this is what we serve our fortunate patrons on the next night. Wasn’t that a good story? Give me a half peso, or more if you want to.”

61)
Now where we lived there were turnips in the garden, some for the cow and some for us. We used to go into the garden, pull up a turnip, wash it under the garden tap and then eat the turnip raw.

But if it came cooked on the table, even at Auntie Dot’s, we said no.

At home Dad would say eat your turnip. Nancy eat your turnip. Billy eat your turnip, you too Elsie.

‘But we don’t like it cooked!’

‘Do as I say, eat your turnip.’

Well what could we do in the face of such grim coercion? . . .


62)
“ . . . It’s nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she’s mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn’t offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and I’ve had ever so many but haven’t returned them, and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know.”


63)
With the last morsel of bread Tom King wiped his plate clean of the last particle of flour gravy and chewed the resulting mouthful in a slow and meditative way. When he arose from the table, he was oppressed by the feeling that he was distinctly hungry. Yet he alone had eaten. The two children in the other room had been sent early to bed in order that in sleep they might forget they had gone supperless. His wife had touched nothing, and had sat silently and watched him with solicitous eyes. She was a thin, worn woman of the working-class, though signs of an earlier prettiness were not wanting in her face. The flour for the gravy she had borrowed from the neighbour across the hall. The last two ha’pennies had gone to buy the bread.


64)
You get a good spadesman
To plant a small tradesman
(First take off his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root
And his fingers will shoot
And they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree;
From the greengrocer tree
You get grapes and green pea
Cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries;
While the pastry-cook plant
Cherry brandy will grant,
Apple puffs, and three corners, and Banburys.


65)
Wise had Nell been to restrict their portion that night to the simplest elements! Tea, eggs, butter, bread, honey and black-current jam. The taste of each of these things — and Sam swallowed them all in rapid, boyish gulps of heavenly greediness — carried nothing but the very poetry of mortal sustenance into their amorous blood. She kept pulling the loose front of her blue dressing gown tightly around her classical breasts; so that Sam remained all through this delicious meal, in complete ignorance of the fact that she had stripped herself naked for him save for her flimsy nightgown.

66)
A Spoonful Pudding

Take a spoonful of flour, a spoonful of cream or milk, an egg, a little nutmeg, ginger, and salt. Mix all together, and boil it in a little wooden dish half an hour. If you think proper you may add a few currants.


67)
The bowl was now brim-full, ringed round its edge by white rice in an embankment a foot wide and six inches deep, filled with legs and ribs of mutton till they toppled over. It needed two or three victims to make in the centre a dressed pyramid of meat such as honour prescribed. The centre-pieces were the boiled, upturned heads, propped on their severed stumps of neck, so that the ears, brown like old leaves, flapped out on the rice surface. The jaws gaped emptily upward, pulled open to show the hollow throat with the tongue, still pink, clinging to the lower teeth; and the long incisors whitely crowned the pile, very prominent above the nostrils’ pricking hair and the lips which sneered away blackly from them.


68)
‘Zebby, this is amazing!’ said Virginia Boote, talking as she ate. ‘It melts in your mouth. It tastes like heaven.’

‘It tastes like the sun, said Augustus TwoFeathers McCoy, putting away his food as only a big man can. He had a leg in one hand, and some breast in the other. ‘It is the finest thing I have ever eaten, and I do not regret eating it, but I do believe that I shall miss my daughter.’

‘It is perfect,’ said Jackie Newhouse. ‘It tastes like love and fine music. It tastes like truth.’


69)
We knew not what to look for next, until a hideous uproar commenced, just outside the dining-room door, and some Spartan hounds commenced to run around the table all of a sudden. A tray followed them, upon which was served a wild boar of immense size, wearing a liberty cap upon its head, and from its tusks hung two little baskets of woven palm fibre, one of which contained Syrian dates, the other, Theban. Around it hung little suckling pigs made from pastry, signifying that this was a brood-sow with her pigs at suck. It turned out that these were souvenirs intended to be taken home. . . .

[*]


70)
KRAPP remains a moment motionless, heaves a great sigh, looks at his watch, fumbles in his pockets, takes out an envelope, puts it back, fumbles, takes out a small bunch of keys, raises it to his eyes, chooses a key, gets up and moves to front of table. He stoops, unlocks first drawer, peers into it, feels about inside it, takes out a reel of tape, peers at it, puts it back, locks drawer, unlocks second drawer, peers into it, feels about inside it, takes out a large banana, peers at it, locks drawer, puts keys back in his pocket. He turns, advances to edge of stage, halts, strokes banana, peels it, drops skin at his feet, puts end of banana in his mouth and remains motionless, staring vacuously before him.

71)
ANNA:
You have a wonderful casserole.

DEELEY:
What?

ANNA:
I mean wife. So sorry. A wonderful wife.

DEELEY:
Ah.

ANNA:
I was referring to the casserole. I was referring to your wife’s cooking.


72)
Throughout the entire struggle not a single Caesarean deserted, and many of them, when taken prisoners, preferred death to the alternative of serving with the Pompeians. Such was their fortitude in facing starvation and other hardships, both as besiegers and as besieged, that when Pompey was shown at Dyrrhachium the substitute for bread, made of grass, on which they were feeding, he exclaimed: ‘I am fighting with wild beasts!’ Then he ordered the loaf to be hidden at once, not wanting his men to find out how tough and resolute the enemy were, and so lose heart.

[*]


73)
On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d’oeuvres, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold.


74)
“Milk and apples (this has been proved by Science, comrades) contain substances absolutely necessary to the well-being of a pig.”


75)
Civilization had made great strides in my absence. I remember when a coin in a slot would get you a stick of gum or a candy bar, but in these dining palaces were vending machines where various coins could deliver handkerchiefs, comb-and-nail-file sets, hair conditioners and cosmetics, first-aid kits, minor drugs such as aspirin, mild physics, pills to keep you awake. I found myself entranced with these gadgets. Suppose you want a soft drink; you pick your kind — Sungrape or Cooly Cola — press a button, insert the coin, and stand back. A paper cup drops into place, the drink pours out and stops a quarter of an inch from the brim — a cold, refreshing drink guaranteed synthetic. Coffee is even more interesting, for when the hot black fluid has ceased, a squirt of milk comes down and an envelope of sugar drops beside the cup. But of all, the hot-soup machine is the triumph. Choose among ten — pea, chicken noodle, beef and veg., insert the coin. A rumbling hum comes from the giant and a sign lights up that reads “Heating.” After a minute a red light flashes on and off until you open a little door and remove the paper cup of boiling-hot soup.

It is life at a peak of some kind of civilization. The restaurant accommodations, great scallops of counters with simulated leather stools, are as spotless as and not unlike the lavatories. Everything that can be captured and held down is sealed in clear plastic. The food is oven-fresh, spotless and tasteless; untouched by human hands. I remembered with an ache certain dishes in France and Italy touched by innumerable human hands.

76)
“We might be sketching out the details now.”

“No time like the present. Start with caviare? Or cantaloup?”

“And cantaloup. Followed by a strengthening soup.”

“Thick or clear?”

“Clear.”

“You aren’t forgetting Anatole’s *Veloute aux fleuxs de courgette*?”

“Not for a moment. But how about his *Consomme aux Pomms d’Amour*?”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“I think I am. I feel I am.”

“I’d better leave the ordering to you.”

“It might be wisest.”


77)
On Saturday he ate through one piece of chocolate cake, one ice-cream cone, one pickle, one slice of swiss cheese, one slice of salami, one lollipop, one piece of cherry pie, one sausage, one cupcake, and one slice of watermelon. That night he had a stomachache!


78)
‘But so she’s coming over. Hal is standing there. Holds the horrific patch of fungus out. The Moms sees at first only her child holding something out, and like all moms hardwired for motherhood she reaches to take whatever her baby holds out. The one sort of case where she wouldn’t check before reaching out toward something held out.’

‘Q.’

‘The Moms though now stops just inside the border of string and she squints, her glasses have dust, she starts to see and process just what it is the kid’s holding out to her. Her hand’s outstretched in the air over the garden’s string and she stops.

‘Hallie takes one step forward, arm up and out in a kind of like Nazi salute. He goes “I ate this.” . . . ’


79)
“ . . . for it has been a common saying of physicians in England, that a cucumber should be well sliced, and dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out, as good for nothing.”


80)
As he reached the landing a ray of light ran like a slender spear through an eastern window and quivered in a little patch on the wall, a few feet from where he stood. This thread of light intensified the shadows below and above it, and it was only after some groping that Flay came across the object. In his harsh hands it felt disgustingly soft. He brought it close to his eyes and became aware of a sickly, penetrating smell; but he could not see what it was that he held. Then, lifting it into the sunbeam so that his hand cast a shadow over the lozenge of light upon the wall, he saw, as though it were something supernaturally illumined, a very small, richly and exquisitely sculpted gateau. At the perimeter of this delicacy, a frail coral-like substance had been worked into the links of a chain, leaving in the centre a minute arena of jade-green icing, across whose glacid surface the letter ‘S’ lay coiled like a worm of cream.

81)
Stilton, thou shouldst be living at this hour
And so thou art.


82)
The best mutton I ever tasted was the Welsh mutton we used to shoot at our rifle range in the Welsh mountains during the war. The farmer used to drive his sheep down behind the machine-gun targets because he got better compensation if we shot them than if he sold them to the butcher. He allowed us to take most of the carcases for the cookhouse since all he needed was the skin with the bullet-holes in order to back his claim.


83)
He ate something from an invisible dish, with invisible fingers: invisible food. He did not care what it would be. He did not know that he had even wondered or tasted until his jaw stopped suddenly in midchewing and thinking fled for twenty-five years back down the street, past all the imperceptible corners of bitter defeats and more bitter victories, and five miles even beyond a corner where he used to wait in the terrible early time of love, for someone whose name he had forgot; five miles even beyond that it went, *I’ll know it in a minute. I have eaten it before, somewhere. In a minute I will memory clicking knowing I see I see I more than see hear I hear I see my head bent I hear the monotonous dogmatic voice which I believe will never cease going on and on forever and peeping I see the indomitable bullet head the clean blunt beard they too bent and I thinking. How can he be so nothungry and I smelling my mouth and tongue weeping the hot salt of waiting my eyes tasting the hot steam from the dish.* “It’s peas,” he said, aloud. “For sweet Jesus. Field peas cooked with molasses.”


84)
RAINA:
Allow me. I am sorry I have eaten them all except these. (She offers him the box.)

MAN:
(ravenously). You’re an angel! (He gobbles the comfits.) Creams! Delicious! (He looks anxiously to see whether there are any more. There are none. He accepts the inevitable with pathetic goodhumor, and says, with grateful emotion) Bless you, dear lady. You can always tell an old soldier by the inside of his holsters and cartridge boxes. The young ones carry pistols and cartridges; the old ones, grub.


85)
I had a vision of the celestially white kitchens of Ladies’ Day stretching into infinity. I saw avocado pear after avocado pear being stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise and photographed under brilliant lights. I saw the delicate, pink-mottled claw meat poking seductively through its blanket of mayonnaise and the bland yellow pear cup with its rim of alligator-green cradling the whole mess.

Poison.

86)
When the turkey finally comes on, and is split in two halves right down the middle, Miss Violette Shumberger looks greatly disappointed, and she speaks for the first time as follows:

“Why,” she says, “where is the stuffing?”

Well, it seems that nobody mentions any stuffing for the turkey to the chef, so he does not make any stuffing, and Miss Violette Shumberger’s disappointment is so plain to be seen that the confidence of the Boston characters is somewhat shaken. They can see that a Judy who can pack away as much fodder as Miss Violette Shumberger has to date, and then beef for stuffing, is really quite an eater.


87)
CUSTARD.

Custard is this. It has aches, aches when. Not to be. Not to be narrowly. This makes a whole little hill.

It is better than a little thing that has mellow real mellow. It is better than lakes whole lakes, it is better than seeding.


88)
At the dinner table, in between bits of deviled grilled lamb kidneys with a sauce he and Fritz had invented, he explained why it was that all you needed to know about any human society was what they ate. If you knew what they ate you could deduce everything else — culture, philosophy, morals, politics, everything. I enjoyed it because the kidneys were tender and tasty and that sauce is one of Fritz’s best, but I wondered how you would make out if you tried to deduce everything about Wolfe knowing what he had eaten in the past ten years. I decided you would deduce that he was dead.


89)
When you are feeling cold inside — try the walls of the cow’s second stomach. When you are sad, cast out by all nature, sad unto death, try tripe, which cheers us and gives meaning to life.

[*]


90)
We sit opposite one another, Kat and I, two soldiers in shabby coats, cooking a goose in the middle of the night. We don’t talk much, but I believe we have a more complete communion with one another than even lovers have.

We are two men, two minute sparks of life; outside is the night and the circle of death. We sit on the edge of it crouching in danger, the grease drips from our hands, in our hearts we are close to one another, and the hour is like the room: flecked over with the lights and shadows of our feelings cast by a quiet fire. What does he know of me or I of him? formerly we should not have had a single thought in common — now we sit with a goose between us and feel in unison, and are so intimate that we do not even speak.

It takes a long time to roast a goose, even when it is young and fat. So we take turns. One bastes it while the other lies down and sleeps. A grand smell gradually fills the hut.

[*]

91)
“What would your excellency like to eat?”

“A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this accursed place.”

“Bread? Very well. Holloa, there, some bread!” he called. The youth brought a small loaf. “How much?” asked Danglars.

“Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,” said Peppino; “You have paid two louis in advance.”

[*]


92)
Sweet corn: the best thing in life. I grew up in a house about a hundred feet from a cornfield, and every evening we’d put the water on to boil, then pick the corn and husk it as we walked rapidly toward the house and chuck it in and dish up the chicken and say a prayer and out came the corn, on went the butter and salt, eight minutes flat from stalk to mouth, and when you ate sweet corn, life had nothing better to offer. You’d been to the top. That’s how it’ll be in heaven, I’m sure.


93)
Then she fed him, and the house spun to her clamour. She caused fowls to be slain; she sent for vegetables, and the sober, slow-thinking gardener, nigh as old as she, sweated for it; she took spices, and milk, and onion, with little fish from the brooks — anon limes for sherbets, fat quails from the pits, then chicken-livers upon a skewer, with sliced ginger between.

“I have seen something of this world,” she said over the crowded trays, “and there are but two sorts of women in it — those who take the strength out of a man and those who put it back. Once I was that one, and now I am this. . . . ”


94)
Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not, indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it signify?

[*]


95)
He entered the restaurant and sat down in one of the red-plush seats, while the waiters eyed his clothes with suspicion. He looked about him in an unembarrassed way. It was quieter and less showy in appearance than the big restaurants he had passed in New York and London, but a glance at the menu told him that it was not a place where poor people often went. Then he began ordering his luncheon, and the waiter’s manner quickly changed as he realized that this eccentrically dressed customer did not need any advice about choosing his food and wine.

He ate fresh caviare and ortolansan porto and crepes suzettes; he drank a bottle of vintage claret and a glass of very old fine champagne, and he examined several boxes of cigars before he found one in perfect condition. When he had finished, he asked for his bill. It was 260 francs. He gave the waiter a tip of 26 francs and 4 francs to the man at the door who had taken his hat and kitbag. His taxi had cost 7 francs. Half a minute later he stood on the kerb with exactly 3 francs in the world. But it had been a magnificent lunch, and he did not regret it.

96)
“Tea is ready,” said the sour-faced maid; “where is the mistress?”

“She went down the shed some time ago,” said Conradin.

And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door.


97)
Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.

[*]


98)
I must confess to enjoying that supper. For about ten days we seemed to have been living, more or less, on nothing but cold meat, cake, and bread and jam. It had been a simple, a nutritious diet; but there had been nothing exciting about it, and the odour of Burgundy, and the smell of French sauces, and the sight of clean napkins and long loaves, knocked as a very welcome visitor at the door of our inner man.

We pegged and quaffed away in silence for a while, until the time came when, instead of sitting bolt upright, and grasping the knife and fork firmly, we leant back in our chairs and worked slowly and carelessly — when we stretched out our legs beneath the table, let our napkins fall, unheeded, to the floor, and found time to more critically examine the smoky ceiling than we had hitherto been able to do — when we rested our glasses at arm’s-length upon the table, and felt good, and thoughtful, and forgiving.


99)
A book of verses underneath the bough,
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine — and thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness,
Ah! Wilderness were Paradise enow.

[*]


100)
She knew from the effort, the rise in his voice to surmount a difficult word that it was the first time he had said ‘we’. “We did this, we did that.” They’ll say that all their lives, she thought, and an exquisite scent of olives and oil and juice rose from the great brown dish as Marthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off. The cook had spent three days over that dish. And she must take great care, Mrs. Ramsay thought, diving into the soft mass, to choose a specially tender piece for William Bankes. And she peered into the dish, with its shiny walls and its confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats and its bay leaves and its wine, and thought, This will celebrate the occasion — a curious sense rising in her, at once freakish and tender, of celebrating a festival, as if two emotions were called up in her, one profound — for what could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death; at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittering eyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.

>>25203430
>3)
Good old Ignatius Riley of Confederacy of Dunces
22)
American Psycho? I think Jean was the secretary
>23)
Jesus performing the bread miracle in the New Testament of the Bible
>26)
Devil's Dictionary by Bierce. Currently reading through this
>44)
Eating priests sounds like Hannibal the Cannibal is the obvious guess
>36)
Son of Adam and Turkish delight is Lion Witch and the Wardrobe of Narnia series
>59
TS Eliot Love song of J Alfred Prucock

>>25203473
>77)
I want to say this is the fat kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

>56)
Good old Titus Andronicus serving a perfectly fine meal with no ill intent

>33)
Is this Jules Verne and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea showing off seafood?

20. Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (the banana feast)
35. Guessing Kazantzakis, Zorba?
41. Alice B. Toklas Cookbook
70. Beckett, Krapp’s Last Tape
94. Proust, Du côté de chez Swann

I'm going on the adaptations but (29) and the brains sounds like a Hannibal Lecter scene. The doctor could be Hannibal

54
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland the Mock Turtle which is used to make mock turtle soup

File: Konata Likes It!.gif (597 KB, 380x280)

597 KB GIF

>>25203493

5/7 here to kick things off:—

>3)
>Good old Ignatius Riley of Confederacy of Dunces
Correct.

>22)
>American Psycho?
Nope. Talking about veins of aromatic gold suggests you genuinely appreciate the food, which isn't quite Bateman's thing.
>I think Jean was the secretary
She was.

>23)
>Jesus performing the bread miracle in the New Testament of the Bible
Correct. Gospel of Saint Matthew.

>26)
>Devil's Dictionary by Bierce. Currently reading through this
Right.

>44)
>Eating priests sounds like Hannibal the Cannibal is the obvious guess
Haha, no, although it's true HL has a somewhat hostile relationship with God and/or religion.

>36)
>Son of Adam and Turkish delight is Lion Witch and the Wardrobe of Narnia series
Right. C. S. Lewis.

>59
>TS Eliot Love song of J Alfred Prucock
Prufrock, but yes.

>>25203511

>77)
>I want to say this is the fat kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Roald Dahl is there in the author list but no, this isn't Augustus Gloop.

It's a bit of a /lit/ meme so I think someone will probably get it soon.

File: Haruhi says Yes!.jpg (62 KB, 320x240)

62 KB JPG

>>25203521

>56)
>Good old Titus Andronicus serving a perfectly fine meal with no ill intent
Correct. Humble food but filling enough to last them the rest of their lives.

2, Swift, Gulliver's Travels
21, Wallace Stevens, Emperor of ice cream
27, Terry Pratchett, not sure which book
30, Roald Dahl, Boy
77, Eric Carle, The Very hungry Caterpillar
80, Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan
97, King Solomon, Proverbs

File: Hestia Says Yes!.jpg (119 KB, 470x352)

119 KB JPG

>>25203534

>33)
>Is this Jules Verne and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea showing off seafood?
Correct. He gets tobacco as well, from some plant or other IIRC.

File: Quite Right!.gif (471 KB, 300x164)

471 KB GIF

>>25203559
All good here:

>20. Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (the banana feast)
The famous Banana Breakfast from all the bananas he grows on the roof.

>35. Guessing Kazantzakis, Zorba?
RIght. A soup where you wait until the customer has enjoyed it before you explain what it is.

>41. Alice B. Toklas Cookbook
Correct. Actually written by Alice B. Toklas, as opposed to the Autobiography Of Alice B. Toklas which was written by Gertrude Stein. The recipe that made it (in)famous.

>70. Beckett, Krapp’s Last Tape
Right. Name drop a bit of a help.

>94. Proust, Du côté de chez Swann
Of course. Or as people without cunning symbols on their keyboards might say, Swann's Way from In Search Of Lost Time.

File: Akko Says Yes!.jpg (54 KB, 380x288)

54 KB JPG

>>25203561
>I'm going on the adaptations but (29) and the brains sounds like a Hannibal Lecter scene. The doctor could be Hannibal.
Correct, Thomas Harris. Lecter feeding Paul Krendler his own brains in Hannibal. (Not a great book to be honest. I would rather have used something from Red Dragon or Silence of the Lambs but we don't see HL actually cooking anything in those, for obvious reasons.)

File: Isla Says Yes!.jpg (48 KB, 342x192)

48 KB JPG

>>25203579

>54
>Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Right, Lewis Carroll.
>the Mock Turtle which is used to make mock turtle soup
Correct.

File: Duck Confit.jpg (1.22 MB, 1200x1800)

1.22 MB JPG

14) The Importance of Being Earnest
42) the inn meal from Moby Dick?
43) Gone with the Wind
91) The Count of Monte Cristo
98) Three Men in a Boat
100) the boeuf en daube from To the Lighthouse

File: Satania Says Yes!.gif (779 KB, 498x278)

779 KB GIF

>>25203638

All good here:

>2, Swift, Gulliver's Travels
The great "Big-Endians & Little-Endians" feud.

>21, Wallace Stevens, Emperor of ice cream
Not sure it's really about ice-cream, but then, no-one knows what any WS poems are about about so ice-cream will do as well as anything.

>27, Terry Pratchett, not sure which book
It's Witches Abroad but he said something similar in several of them.

>30, Roald Dahl, Boy
"Too subtle for the common palate" isn't that different from 4chan's disdain for normies when you think about it.

>77, Eric Carle, The Very hungry Caterpillar
Of course.

>80, Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan
The build-up to the big Flay-Swelter fight.

>97, King Solomon, Proverbs
Not 100% certain that Solomon wrote them but he's the one who gets credited.

>>25203436
>16)
If this is Bateman in American Psycho can I get a psycho anime girl?

File: Erza Says Yes!.gif (250 KB, 300x281)

250 KB GIF

>>25203673
Duck is delicious of course but I do think it's a bit silly the way haute cuisine insists you put the meat on top of the other stuff. I mean you only have to take it off. But that's a minor complaint.

All good here, and nothing found previously. At this rate we'll be wrapped up by supper-time:—


>14) The Importance of Being Earnest
The names help I must say.

>42) the inn meal from Moby Dick?
H. Melville, of course. And not just any meal. CLAM CHOWDER!

>43) Gone with the Wind
"Scarlett" a useful name for sure.

>91) The Count of Monte Cristo
Right, when they are taking all D.'s money away. There's something very French about that punctiliousness with the two francs.

>98) Three Men in a Boat
Of course. At the end, when it starts chucking it down with rain and they cut their holiday short and have some real food.

>100) the boeuf en daube from To the Lighthouse
Virginia Woolf waxing lyrical about casseroles and suchlike. Quite right too. Casseroles are pretty good.

File: Popuko Pipimi Pointing.gif (488 KB, 540x303)

488 KB GIF

>>25203682

>16)
>If this is Bateman in American Psycho
It is. He's confused and worried by someone ordering real normal food.

>can I get a psycho anime girl?
Sadly I don't have any psycho girls. All my anime girls are guaranteed 100% wholesome and suitable for taking home to show to one's parents.

Oh well, I suppose Popuko can be a bit vehement sometimes.

>>25203423
7 is cormac mccarthy sutree
27 terry prachett
36 narnia cs lewis
53 treasure island stevenson ben gunn or whatever hes called chavvy

File: Eiko Says Yes!.gif (61 KB, 220x124)

61 KB GIF

>>25203948

>27 terry prachett
>36 narnia cs lewis
Correct, although already found. Witches Abroad & The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe respectively.

>7 is cormac mccarthy sutree
>53 treasure island stevenson ben gunn or whatever hes called chavvy
Also correct and you're the first. Harrogate helps with Suttree although the style is pretty distinctive too. And I guess cheese-o-philia is what everyone remembers about Ben Gunn.

>>25203452
>44)
Grendal
>>25203458
>51)
This reads like Hemingway but couldn't say what

File: Hitori Says Yes!.jpg (62 KB, 295x295)

62 KB JPG

>>25205079

>44)
>Grendal
Grendel, yes. John Gardener.

>51)
>This reads like Hemingway
It does . . .
>but couldn't say what
Maybe someone else will recognize it.

>>25203423
>2
Gulliver's Travels
>3
A Confederacy of Dunces
>23
The Holy Gospel According to Matthew (or Luke, or Mark)
>28
...The Magic Mountain?
>36
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
>43
Gone with the Wind
>59
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
>68
...Lonesome Dove? I have not read much of it but I believe I recall a character named Augustus.
>69
Satyricon
>70
Krapp's Last Tape
>72
...Plutarch's Lives?
>78
Infinite Jest
>97
Proverbs
>100
To the Lighthouse

File: Tohru Approves!.gif (504 KB, 360x252)

504 KB GIF

>>25206938

These are correct, although others already got there:
>2
>Gulliver's Travels

>3
>A Confederacy of Dunces

>23
>The Holy Gospel According to Matthew (or Luke, or Mark)

>36
>The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

>43
>Gone with the Wind

>59
>The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

>70
>Krapp's Last Tape

>97
>Proverbs

>100
>To the Lighthouse


Logical but incorrect:

>68
>...Lonesome Dove? I have not read much of it but I believe I recall a character named Augustus.
Yeah Augustus is one of the main guys in LD. But:
a) his surname is Macrae
b) no Larry McMurtry in the author list

>72
>...Plutarch's Lives?
A very reasonable shot; Plutarch likes little anecdoes like this. But again he's not in the author list. It's a contemporary of his.


These are good and all yours:

>28
>...The Magic Mountain?
Right, Thomas Mann. They do have nice meals up there in the sanitorium. Probably a symbol of something or other.

>69
>Satyricon
Petronius is in the author list under A because of his full name. Trimalchio's ridiculous elaborate feast, the ur-example of nouveau-riche extravagance.

>78
>Infinite Jest
DFW likes the anecdote so much he tells it twice, once in first person, once in third. (Not sure the unspeakable goo counts as food, but it is something organic that gets eaten, so . . . )

Real schizo thread

>>25207753
>72, author list, contemporary.
Then it must be Suetonius. Lives of the Twelve Caesars

File: Hina Says Yes!.jpg (111 KB, 640x360)

111 KB JPG

>>25207820
>72, author list, contemporary.
>Then it must be Suetonius. Lives of the Twelve Caesars
Right.

Why are all you anime girls giving each other thumbs ups?

>>25203454
>47
Is this elven lembas bread?

File: Emilia Says Yes!.jpg (60 KB, 320x354)

60 KB JPG

>>25207954

>47
>Is this elven lembas bread?
Sure is. Fellowship of the Ring:


In the morning, as they were beginning to pack their slender goods, Elves that could speak their tongue came to them and brought them many gifts of food and clothing for the journey. The food was mostly in the form of very thin cakes, made of a meal that was baked a light brown on the outside, and inside was the colour of cream. Gimli took up one of the cakes and looked at it with a doubtful eye.

‘Cram,’ he said under his breath, as he broke off a crisp corner and nibbled at it. His expression quickly changed, and he ate all the rest of the cake with relish.

‘No more, no more!’ cried the Elves laughing. ‘You have eaten enough already for a long day’s march.’

I just wanted to say thank you to quiz anon. I'm sure it takes a lot of effort putting these quizzes together, and being able to do so shows an impressive breadth of knowledge. I always look forward to these threads, even if I can't get many of the answers, and they inspire me to become more widely read.

Bump