“I could eat bloody Elvis – if you put enough vinegar on him.”

Few things are more beautiful to me than a bunch of thuggish, heavily tattooed line cooks moving around each other like ballerinas on a busy Saturday night.

Don’t lie about it. You made a mistake. Admit it and move on. Just don’t do it again. Ever.

This, I knew, was the magic I had until now been only dimly and spitefully aware of.

Our movements through time and space seem somehow trivial compared to a heap of boiled meat in broth, the smell of saffron, garlic, fishbone, and Pernod.

Don’t touch my dick, don’t touch my knife.

I’ve long believed that good food, good eating, is all about risk.

I lurched away from the table after a few hours feeling like Elvis in Vegas – fat, drugged, and completely out of it.

Skills can be taught. Character you either have or you don’t have.

Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life—and travel—leaves marks on you.

You have to be a romantic to invest yourself, your money, and your time in cheese.

The way you make an omelet reveals your character.

Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.

Frightened people become angry people – as history teaches us again and again.

Food had power. It could inspire, astonish, shock, excite, delight and impress. It had the power to please me .

People confuse me. Food doesn’t.

Luck is not a business model.

I didn’t forget your breakfast. I didn’t bring your breakfast. Because you didn’t eat your din-din.

The chocolate and crisps come in at times. You have to allow the little things that make you happy. I’m not extreme about what I eat.

The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.

There exists no politician in India daring enough to attempt to explain to the masses that cows can be eaten.

You know when they have a fishing show on TV? They catch the fish and then let it go. They don’t want to eat the fish, they just want to make it late for something.

Now I know why tigers eat their young.

Gluttony? I could eat and eat and eat and eat and eat. I’d love to pig out on gluten. I mean, I’m allergic to gluten, but I really want to do that. I want to sit in bed one day and just pig out.

He would not stoop even to pick up the old manuscript I am going to seek with so much trouble and fatigue. And in truth man is made rather to eat ices than to pore over old texts.