Mrs. M. F. K. Fisher

Madame Biarnet.

She ate like a madwoman, crumbs falling from het mouth, her cheeks bulging, her eyes glistening and darting about the plate and cups and her hand tearing at chunks of meat and crust of bread.
Occasionally she stopped long enough to put a tiny bit between the wet delicate lips of her little terrier Tango, who sat silently on her knees through every meal. . . .
She drank only in Lent, for some deeply hidden reason. Then she grew uproarious and affectionate and finally tearful on hot spiced Moulin á Vent in which she sopped fried pastries called Friandaise de Carême. They immediately became very limp and noisy to eat, and she loved them; a way to make long soughings which irritated her husband and satisfied her bitter insistence that we are all beasts.

(Het lijkt Villa des Roses wel.)