A steamy appetizing smell rose from the plate: he took up the knife and the fork and, with the sharp clean action of a craftsman, cut off a corner of the toast and tomato and raised it slowly to his mouth, eating with relish and hardly noticing people sitting roundabout. Each wielding of his knife and fork, each geometrical cut of the slice of toast, each curve and twist of his lips joined in a complex and regular motion that gave him great satisfaction. He ate slowly, quietly and contentedly, aware only of himself and his body being warmed and made tolerable once more by food. The leisurely movement of a spoon and cup and saucer made up the familiar noise of late breakfast in a crowded café, sounded like music flowing here and there in variations of rhythm.
- Uncle Ernest, The loneliness of the long distance runner, d'Alan Sillitoe, p. 56
Diria que el menjar no és un tema que es tracti habitualment en la literatura, i de ben segur mai no he llegit una descripció que m'hagi fet evocar un personatge obtenint major satisfacció del seu plat. Per això, passo de traduir el deliciós esmorzar d'aquest pobre diable, perquè massa idees es perdrien pel camí.