-
…as Gideon surrendered to the surging tides of his imagination, letting them sweep him away toward a shimmering, beckoning horizon.
The women moaned, the men groaned,…
-
“I don’t think anyone else should get their hands on it.”
“Take this, Monsieur,” she pressed the envelope against his chest.
-
Carl had at last arrived in Stavanger, the place he had longed for—where, alongside the renowned Laurits Waagen, he would soon embark on creating something wholly new: the art of molecular cuisine.
The house lay low, at first appearing no larger than a garden shed.
-
“Do you love her? Do you crave her—your Denise?” Franco demanded, refusing to let go.
-
Suddenly the clattering ceased, and Neill once again felt freedom, lightness, and peace after a long time.
-
Carl knew this place would be his refuge amid the chaos—his solace, his cure for homesickness.
The espresso from the gleaming chrome Gaggia was a fragrant, steaming dream in black.
-
Monica Southgate had her very own special encounter with celebrity chef Neill Cormitt.
“I don’t need any damn tourists taking lousy pictures of my culinary masterpieces with their cheap cameras, got it?”
-
He let his black dressing gown of heavy Chinese silk slide off his body and looked with satisfaction at the bright red welts on his chest and back in the mirror.
The only pressure Baron Mathéo Lapointe felt on this hot Sunday morning in July was that of his bladder.
-
…it was only when Carl saw his char rolls on the first page of the menu that he realized this could be the beginning of something big, something Carl hadn’t dared to dream of just a year ago.”
“It was only when Carl saw his char rolls on the first page of the menu that he realized…
-
When there is no time to reflect on the reasonableness or unreasonableness of one’s actions.
For a few eternal minutes, they merged into a single, glowing body.
