Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

Tohru, you get to be the rice ball.

No, no, it’s all right. If you don’t mind letting the last of the wonderful beef stew that Tohru put her heart and soul into

Pickled radish in curry is not dinner, it’s disgusting.

Don’t let your food get cold worrying about what’s on my plate.

There isn’t anything I need but you and maybe a cheeseburger.

When we’re born, all we have are desires for food and material things. Selfish instincts, I guess.

…the true spirit of gastronomic joylessness. Porridge fills the Englishman up, and prunes clear him out.

I needed coffee, two coffees, a bite to eat.

Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly – all else is desperation.

Your words are my food, your breath my wine. You are everything to me.

You’re the only person I would share my snacks with.

How about you come over here? I’ve got all of your favourites ready. Burgers, fries, smoothies, and me.

How ’bout them apples, man?

“I brought you a snack,” Takumi said, dropping an oatmeal cream pie onto my book.
“Very nutritious,” I smiled.
“You’ve got your oats. You’ve got your meal. You’ve got your cream. It’s a fuckin’ food pyramid.”

I hated cranberry sauce, but for some reason my mom persisted in her lifelong belief that it was my very favorite food, even though every single Thanksgiving I politely declined to include it on my plate.

I thought at first she was just dead. Just darkness. Just a body being eaten by bugs. I thought about her alot like that, like someone’s meal. What was her – green eyes, half a smirk, the soft curves of her legs – would soon be nothing, just the bones I never saw. I thought about the slow process of becoming bone and then fossil and then coal that will, in millions of years, be mined by humans of the future, and how they would heat their homes with her, and then she would be smoke billowing out of a smokestack, coating the atmosphere.

You can say a lot of bad things about Alabama, but you can’t say Alabamans as a people are unduly afraid of deep fryers. In that first week at the Creek, the cafeteria served fried chicken, chicken fried steak, and fried okra, which marked my first foray into the delicacy that is the fried vegetable.

Vince: What is this guy sandwich crazy or something?
Leon: Nah. He ain’t here for the food, V.

What did you put in that sandwich?

Vince: Why don’t you try Fat Burger from now on? You can get yourself a cheese and fries for 2.95, faggot!
Brian: I like the tuna here.
Vince: Bullshit asshole, no one likes the tuna here!
Brian: Yeah well I do.

Dom: Jesse, since you were the first to reach in and grab some chicken, why don’t you say grace?
Jesse: Dear Heavenly… uh…
Leon: Spirit.
Jesse: Spirit. Thank you. Thank you for providing us with the direct-port nitrous… uh… injection, four-core intercoolers, an’ ball-bearing turbos, and… um… titanium valve springs. Thank you.
Leon: Amen!
Dom: Very nice.
Letty: He was praying to the car gods.

We truckers need our truck stops for food, fuel, rest, and relaxation, and it makes our visit more enjoyable to see smiling faces.

Most of the time out here a truck driver eats cold sandwiches, cakes, and cookies, junk food is the biggest thing we eat.

I don’t have a religion. I ain’t nothing wrong with church as long as they selling chicken. Cause I read the Quran, I read the Kabalah, I read the Bible. They all got the same three basic principles: Love God, love your neighbor as yourself, and… As far as me being, I live by those principles.

Alaska decided to go help Dolores with dinner. She said that it was sexist to leave the cooking to the women, but better to have good sexist food than crappy boy-prepared food.

There is nothing wrong with God’s plan that man should earn his bread by the sweat of his brow.

And that’s when the fun started. The Colonel led all the cheers.
“Cornbread!” he screamed.
“CHICKEN!” the crowd responded.
“Rice!”
“PEAS!”
And then, all together: “WE GOT HIGHER SATs.”
“Hip Hip Hip Hooray!” the Colonel cried.
“YOU’LL BE WORKIN’ FOR US SOMEDAY!”

Today’s food truck are far from cheap eats on wheel, there are some seriously gourmet offerings on four wheels.

If the world was ending, I think I would grab some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a bunch of water, and I’d probably just… I’d probably go crazy.

A special breakfast for you today: a plate of love, a bowl of peace, a spoon of hope, a fork of care, and a glass of prayer. Enjoy your meal for you are under God’s care. Good morning.

Food trucks give creative entrepreneurs the ability to cook with freedom and make what they love, meaning that they can create highly specialized meals without having the high overhead costs of running a restaurant.

I always order a special meal. On this airline, I go with the seafood salad. On American, I’ll have their kosher plate: a little slice of salami, some roast beef, some turkey, dark rye bread, very nice. Now, if I’m flying United, I’ll say I’m a youngster and they’ll give me the kiddie plate. That’s a hot dog, bag of potato chips, a gherkin, and a nice little bag of Oreo cookie, mmm!

Del: I know you don’t I? I’m usually very good with names but I’ll be damned if I haven’t forgotten yours.
Neal: You stole my cab.
Del: I never stole anything in my life.
Neal: I hailed a cab on Park Avenue this afternoon and before I could get in it. You stole it.
Del: You’re the guy who tried to get my cab. I knew I knew you! You scared the bejesus out of me. Come to think of it it was easy to get a cab during rush hour.
Neal: Forget it.
Del: I can’t forget it. I am sorry. I had no idea it was your cab. Let me make it up to you. How about a nice hot dog and a beer.
Neal: No thanks.
Del: Just a hot dog then.
Neal: I’m kinda picky about what I eat.
Del: Some coffee?
Neal: No.
Del: Milk?
Neal: No.
Del: Soda?
Neal: No.
Del: Tea?
Neal: No
Del: LifeSavers?
Neal: No.
Del: Slurpee?
Neal: Sir – please.
Del: Just let me know. I’m here. I knew I knew ya!

By now it was clear that Howl was in a mood to produce green slime any second. Sophie hurriedly put her sewing away. “I’ll make some hot buttered toast,” she said. “Is that all you can do in the face of tragedy??” Howl asked. “Make toast!”

I’m from Canada, so Thanksgiving to me is just Thursday with more food. And I’m thankful for that.

Food from the platter
Water from the rain
The subject and the matter
I’m going home again
Can’t sell a leaf to a tree
Nor the wind to the atmosphere
I know where I am meant to be
And I can’t be satisfied here

I don’t drink coffee I take tea my dear, I like my toast done on one side. And you can hear it in my accent when I talk, I’m an Englishman in New York. See me walking down Fifth Avenue, a walking cane here at my side. I take it everywhere I walk, I’m an Englishman in New York. I’m an alien I’m a legal alien, I’m an Englishman in New York.

You should see my f**king cookouts, man. When I was back in Seattle, I had the goddamn Spoonman from the Soundgarden videos coming to my s**t. Oh, yeah. I’m talking six grills burning at all times. Tiki Torches. Three whole pigs. F**king s**tloads of macaroni and cheeses. Baked potatoes. Collared greens. A horse. F**king Puerto Rican chicks showing their pussies and t**s off everywhere. They were amazing.

An Englishman teaching an American about food is like the blind leading the one-eyed.

There’s gonna be an ass-ton of crabs, lobsters, wine, Bartles & Jaymes, corn on the cob, f**kin’ booger sugar.

I love how you’ve sexualized the food. This is perfect for a shopping mall.