Alcohol Carries The Pleasures Of The Palate

Nothing Is More Pleasant Than To See A Pretty Woman, Her Napkin Well Placed Under Her Arms, One Of Her Hands On The Table, While The Other Carries To Her Mouth, The Choice Piece So Elegantly Carved.

Hearing, Which, By The Motion Of The Air, Informs Us Of The Motion Of Sounding Or Vibrating Bodies.

Food Is All Those Substances Which, Submitted To The Action Of The Stomach, Can Be Assimilated Or Changed Into Life By Digestion, And Can Thus Repair The Losses Which The Human Body Suffers Through The Act Of Living.

If Any Man Has Drunk A Little Too Deeply From The Cup Of Physical Pleasure; If He Has Spent Too Much Time At His Desk That Should Have Been Spent Asleep; If His Fine Spirits Have Become Temporarily Dulled; If He Finds The Air Too Damp, The Minutes Too Slow, And The Atmosphere Too Heavy To Withstand; If He Is Obsessed By A Fixed Idea Which Bars Him From Any Freedom Of Thought: If He Is Any Of These Poor Creatures, We Say, Let Him Be Given A Good Pint Of Amber-flavored Chocolate... And Marvels Will Be Performed.

The Pleasure Of The Table Belongs To All Ages, To All Conditions, To All Countries, And To All Areas; It Mingles With All Other Pleasures, And Remains At Last To Console Us For Their Departure.