I cannot imagine a situation in which a Frenchman would willingly serve something that was in the English style.

But if he simply must, then he’d put little pats of cream on top that would refuse to melt, indicating to the guests that they weren’t only getting English food but cold English food, and that’s all my miserable grasping heirs deserve.

You’ve come tonight because I’m an old man, and a rich one at that, haven’t you? You expect to pick my bones when I’m gone? I see how you eye the silverware. You, nephew, I see how you fancy my antiques. Oh don’t play innocent; I’ve known some sharps in my day and you couldn’t hold a candle to any of them but I know the type, I do, and I’ll be damned if you’ll get a sou so you can toss my money across the felt in some gilded den of whores. You’re disinherited, the lot of you.

Now, let’s eat.