If any question why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.
—Rudyard Kipling, “Epitaphs of the War,” The Years Between, 1919
She consulted me, a glance, and said: “I think not anything off the wagon. It arrives too quickly. Let’s have something that takes forever. So that we can get drunk and disorderly. Say a soufflé Furstenberg. Could you do that, Monsieur Soulé?”
He tutted his tongue—on two counts: he disapproves of customers dulling their taste buds with alcohol, and also: “Furstenberg is a great nuisance. An uproar.”
Delicious, though: a froth of cheese and spinach into which an assortment of poached eggs has been sunk strategically, so that, when struck by your fork, the soufflé is moistened with golden rivers of egg yolk.
“An uproar,” said Ina, “is exactly what I want.”
—Truman Capote, “La Côte Basque, 1965,” Esquire, November 1975
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