“A different serving boy came out with a basket of steaming hot bread and, in the Gaulic fashion, little tubs of sweet butter. Eric preferred olive oil, but along with all the other terrible things going on in the castle, Vanessa had embraced Gaulic culture with the tacky enthusiasm of a true nouveau riche.
"I do so love baguettes, my dear, sweet, Mad Prince. Don't you?" she said with a sigh, picking up a piece and buttering it carefully. "You know, we don't have them where I come from."
"Really? Where you come from? What country on Earth doesn't have some form of bread? Tell me. Please, I'd like to know."
"Well, we don't have a grand tradition of baking, in general," she said, opening her mouth wider and wider. Then, all the while looking directly at Eric, she carefully pushed the entire slice in. She chewed, forcefully, largely, and expressively. He could see whole lumps of bread being pushed around her mouth and up against her cheeks.
The prince threw his own baguette back down on the plate in disgust.
She grinned, mouth still working.
"Your appetite is healthy, despite your cold," he growled. "Healthy for a longshoreman. Where do you put it all? You never- seem- to- gain- a -pound."
"Running the castle keeps one trim," she answered modestly.”