That year 1919, when Gramp and Mania and myself were crossing America the hard way, via a Model T, was a year of sun and dust in the Middle West.

The first fact about the dyed-in-the-wool, ancient, and honorable Down East institution called the shore dinner is that it is never eaten on the shore.

It's a little patch of heaven—gourmets' heaven, we mean—Bellows' Gourmets' Bazaar, 69 East Fifty-second Street, New York. Here we discovered little delicacies from the Continent not generally found in the States....

I can never think of one but I think of the other. As sure as my Uncle Quentin conies into my mind, quahaugs come, too.

An old French Proverb has it: “C'est la Sauce qui fait le poisson,” testifying to the importance of sauce.

Is there any better dessert after a dinner than a red-meated grapefruit broiled with sweet sherry? Or dress the halves with a cherry or a dot of cranberry, or drizzle on honey.

The neck of the bird is the best part of him. The nearer the bone, the nearer the extremities, the sweeter the meat.

Few men live through the entire life of a celebrated establishment. But when the Ritz-Carlton in New York closes, that will be my status.

The most picturesque of the French provinces is a land of pastry and pâté de foie gras, storks, sausages, and “choucroute garnie.”