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The consummate pleasure (in eating) is not in the costly flavour, but in yourself. Do you seek for sauce for sweating?
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The genuine Amphitryon is the Amphitryon with whom we dine. [Fr., Le veritable Amphitryon Est l’Amphitryon ou l’on dine.]
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The master of art or giver of wit, Their belly.
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The only way to eat well in England is to have breakfast three times a day.
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The poor man will praise it so hath he good cause, That all the year eats neither partridge not quail, But sets up his rest and makes up his feast, With a crust of brown bread and a pot of good ale.
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The proof of the pudding is in the eating.
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The stomach carries the heart, and not the heart the stomach. [Sp., Tripas llevan corazon, que no corazon tripas.]
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The true Amphitryon.
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The turnpike road to people’s hearts I find Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind.
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The whole of nature, as has been said, is a conjugation of the verb to eat, in the active and passive.
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Their best and most wholesome feeding is upon one dish and no more and the same plaine and simple: for surely this hudling of many meats one upon another of divers tastes is pestiferous. But sundrie sauces are more dangerous than that.
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They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
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They say fingers were made before forks, and hands before knives.
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Think of the man who first tried German sausage.
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This dish of meat is too good for any but anglers, or very honest men.
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Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbradings; Unquiet meals make ill digestions; Thereof the raging fire of fever bred.
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Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let’s be merry; we’ll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such ladylike luxuries.
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Though your threshing floor grind a hundred thousand bushels of corn, not for that reason will your stomach hold more than mine. [Lat., Millia frumenti tua triverit area centum. Non tuus hinc capiet venter plus ac meus.]
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‘Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast; It’s that confounded cucumber I’ve ate and can’t digest.
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‘Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table’s merriment.
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