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"Who the fuck do you think I am? I'm the fucking god of New Vegas brahmin fusion cuisine, that's who. No, no, that doesn't even give me the credit I deserve. I fucking invented edible food! Do you like eating? Good. You owe me your entire goddamn garbage existence."
Phillipe, Head Chef of the White Glove Society, Fallout: New Vegas

King: No... you can't do this!
Lizzie: Why, Your Majesty... are you afraid?
King: Only a fool would say no!
Lizzie: You will eat it. I can make you.
King: No... NooooooooAWMPH! Ohpf... deaah gawwd. Itsh (gulp) delicious. There's... there's no more, is there?
Lizzie: No, there is not.
King: General! Strike me down, then have every last man, woman and child put to the sword. There's no point going on anymore, not now that it's all gone...
General: At once, sire.
Lizzie: Mwahahhahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!
— Lizzie Shinkicker's mackerel in cream sauce destroys a kingdom, SynthOrange's Let's Play of Princess Maker 2

"I intend to marry Agatha myself. She may be a thousand years old, but she makes an incomparable jam tart. Beauty fades, but cooking is eternal."
Will Herondale, The Infernal Devices

Drumknott: Are you sure this is wise? I have already told the guards to throw the foodstuffs away.
Vetinari: Food cooked by a Sugarbean? You may have committed a crime against high art, Drumknott.

"Minor religions had been built around Porcellus's beignets in Mos Eisley — scarcely the oddest objects of veneration in that port, it should be added."

Gemegishkirihallat had been the baker of Hell.
It had been her peculiar position, her speciality among all the diverse amusements and professions of Hades, which performs as perfectly and smoothly in its industries as the best human city can imagine, but never accomplish. Everything in its place, all souls accounted for, everyone blessed and punished according to strict and immutable laws. She baked bread to be seen but ultimately withheld, sweetcakes to be devoured until the skin split and the stomach protruded like the head of a child through the flesh, black pastry to haunt the starved mind. [...]
And in her long nights, in her long house of smoke and miller’s stones, she baked the bread we eat in dreams, strangest loaves, her pies full of anguish and days long dead, her fairy-haunted gingerbread, her cakes wet with tears.
The Bread We Eat In Dreams, by Catherynne M. Valente

Josuke: All you wanted to do was have Okuyasu eat good food? Really?
Tonio: What greater joy is there for a chef but to do just that? That is what I live for. That is all I want.

Whatever else she said about the Third Child, she privately admitted that he knew how to cook like a professional chef.


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