Good Wine, Well Drunk, Can

In America We Eat, Collectively, With A Glum Urge For Food To Fill Us. We Are Ignorant Of Flavour. We Are As A Nation Taste-blind.

For Me, A Plain Baked Potato Is The Most Delicious One....it Is Soothing And Enough.

It Seems To Me That Our Three Basic Needs, For Food And Security And Love, Are So Mixed And Mingled And Entwined That We Cannot Straightly Think Of One Without The Others. So It Happens That When I Write Of Hunger, I Am Really Writing About Love And The Hunger For It, And Warmth And The Love Of It And The Hunger For It… And Then The Warmth And Richness And Fine Reality Of Hunger Satisfied… And It Is All One.

A Well-made Martini Or Gibson, Correctly Chilled And Nicely Served, Has Been More Often My True Friend Than Any Two-legged Creature.

It Is A Curious Fact That No Man Likes To Call Himself A Glutton, And Yet Each Of Us Has In Him A Trace Of Gluttony, Potential Or Actual. I Cannot Believe That There Exists A Single Coherent Human Being Who Will Not Confess, At Least To Himself, That Once Or Twice He Has Stuffed Himself To Bursting Point On Anything From Quail Financiere To Flapjacks, For No Other Reason Than The Beastlike Satisfaction Of His Belly.