I Believe That If Ever I Had

Good Bread And Good Butter Go Together. They Are One Of The Perfect Marriages In Gastronomy, And They Never Fail To Cheer Me.

I've Long Said That If I Were About To Be Executed And Were Given A Choice Of My Last Meal, It Would Be Bacon And Eggs. There Are Few Sights That Appeal To Me More Than The Streaks Of Lean And Fat In A Good Side Of Bacon, Or The Lovely Round Of Pinkish Meat Framed In Delicate White Fat That Is Canadian Bacon. Nothing Is Quite As Intoxicating As The Smell Of Bacon Frying In The Morning, Save Perhaps The Smell Of Coffee Brewing.

I Have Had, In My Time, Memorable Meals Of Scrambled Eggs With Fresh Truffles, Scrambled Eggs With Caviar And Other Glamorous Things, But To Me, There Are Few Things As Magnificent As Scrambled Eggs, Pure And Simple, Perfectly Cooked And Perfectly Seasoned.

What Comforted Me? That Is Easy. It Was A Strong Cold Chicken Jelly So Very, Very Thick. My Mother's Chinese Cook Would Fix It. He Would Cook It Down, Condense It-this Broth With All Sorts Of Feet In It, Then It Would Gell Into Sheer Bliss. It Kept Me Alive Once For Three Weeks When I Was Ill As A Child. And I've Always Craved It Since.

The Roe Of The Russian Sturgeon Has Probably Been Present At More Important International Affairs Than Have All The Russian Dignitaries Of History Combined. This Seemingly Simple Article Of Diet Has Taken Its Place In The World Along With Pearls, Sables, Old Silver, And Cellini Cups.