Quotes About Indulgence

I am a foodie and do not suppress the needs of my body.

I doubt whether the world holds for any one a more soul-stirring surprise than the first adventure with ice-cream.

One thing people would be surprised to know about me: I have a mean roundhouse kick. And my guilty pleasure? Deep fried pig ears!

I find it almost comforting to count calories, because it makes me conscious of what I'm eating. But on Super Bowl Sunday, I thought, 'Surrender to it. It's nacho time.' Then I ate nothing but Doritos all day.

You can have a hangover from other things than alcohol. I had one from women.

I went down to the lobby and slipped the catch and then took a shower and put my pajamas on and lay down on the bed. I could have slept for a week. I dragged myself up off the bed again and set the catch on the door, which I had forgotten to do, and walked through a deep hard snowdrift out to the kitchenette and laid out glasses and a bottle of liqueur Scotch I had been saving for a really high-class seduction.

I used to like mine with champagne. The champagne as cold as Valley Forge and about a third of a glass of brandy beneath it.

Le duc mangea copieusement, puis il alla se coucher et dormit de fort bon appétit.

Shep claimed eating cake like that so early in the morning was a 'whore's breakfast.' The rest of them didn't care. They were happy little whores who didn't worry about saving a morsel.

smoke, drink, never think—borrowed from Billie Holiday.

The only thing he likes better than a nice juicy homicide is a sirloin steak smothered with onions.

What we eat is funny and what we drink is even more hilarious: turkeys, Gallo port, hot dogs, watermelons, Popeyes, salmon croquettes, frappes, Christian Brothers port, orange rye bread, canteloupes, Popeyes, salads, cheese--booze, grub and Popeyes.

Darky ate slowly, enjoying every morsel, his mouth salivating so wildly that he worried at the loud sloshing sound he made. But it was lost in all the other wet noises of the night.

I believe in red meat. I've often said: red meat and gin.

I opened the school's booklet, found the recipes from the examination — oeufs mollets with sauce béarnaise, côtelettes de veau en surprise and crème renversée au caramel — and whipped them all up in a cold, clean fury. Then I ate them.

Hugo planned a five-course meal: smoked duck, oyster stew, roast beef with mashed yams, a salad of apples with beets and blue cheese, then chocolate banana cream pie. Rich, rich, and richer still. Ben made pitchers of martinis and set aside thirty-five bottles of a tried-and-true Napa cabernet, pure purple velvet, and an Oregonian pinot gris, grassy and effervescent.

So there was a martini- something he hadn't tasted since college- and there was wine, and there was a dinner most remarkable for a meal produced at a camp: smoked mussels (gathered and smoked right there on the island, he learned), ratatouille, a salad with pears and blue cheese, and a three-layer chocolate cake with whipped cream and cherries, all of it made by Greenie's mother, who would not accept a bit of help.

None of this Mad Mario showmanship- orange clogs and Bermuda shorts fit for Babar, sweetbreads garnished with squash blossoms stuffed with cheese from the milk of Angora goats who live in the Pyrenees. Litchi sorbet veined with coconut milk and honey from Crete.

Jake, who is both fitter and more hedonistic than me, once told me what they say about martinis: One's perfect. Two's too many. And three's not enough.

You can have your cake and eat it; the only trouble is, you get fat

Frenchly, they set off with 1,300 litres of claret, fifty bottles of Pernod, and a mechanical piano.

He was a relentlessly cheerful presence, talked only of himself but so good-naturedly that she indulged him. He certainly laughed a good deal. Something about his laugh made her feel more alone than if she were standing on a high cliff at the end of the world, shouting her name into the void to hear it echo back at her.

He reached out and drew his finger lightly from her ankle right up the curve of her calf. When his finger reached the crook of her knee, he stopped. Astonished to see it there. Silently, a little frantically, he considered excuses: An insect was crawling up your stocking, Susannah. I was checking to see if you were injured, Susannah. I was--- Don't stop. It was her voice. Husky, abstracted. And the words roared like a brushfire over his senses.

All right then, I will," she said, delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "Safe sex, Nicholas." "Yes, dear," Viola agreed. She circle the table, collecting the plates, "We want you to practice safe sex…shall we have dessert?