The waiter removed our entree dishes and waltzed back to the kitchen with them. We were all sitting in silence. It was strange. Mealtimes used to be happy occasions spent chatting. But here, meals were solemn, muted affairs where manners and the respect of ritual were paramount. As I looked up from the white tablecloth I locked eyes with the girl sitting opposite me, she allowed her eyes to smle. I almost grinned in return, but censored myself at the last moment. Smiling at the table wasn’t acceptable and would get me into a lot of trouble if I were spotted by one of the adults that were sitting around the large, eighteen place setting dining table. They deliberately placed themselves in scattered positions amongst the children so as to allow them to monitor our behaviour.
It was her entree that was the problem. The peas were good, the rice was great. If he could be happy with peas and rice — oh, and the salad, of course — then dinner would be happy. But she knew the entree was inadequate, and was the whole problem. Actually, he was the whole problem.
Kathleen Gabriel
My favorite thing in the world is food! A tasty meal that I can dig into, an experience no one but me gets to have for the particular food in front of me. I take a bite, and it tastes so good, I want to cry. It was my mother’s recipe. May she rest in peace. I hope she is proud of the adaption I have done of her entree. I miss you, Mom.
Food is all I can smell. I am so excited to dig into this tasty plate the restaurant has made up for me. It looks so good. The whole building is filled with the smells of cooking, foods, and the sounds of satisfied tummies. The entree in front of me looks too good to be true, all the food arranged so perfectly and beautifully it makes me sad to ruin it by eating it. I pick up my fork anyway, and dig in, lifting the delectable food to my mouth and letting out a satisfied sound when I swallow. Ah, it is perfection incarnate. Tiermasou, I believe, is the name of the dessert I chose, and translated, it means: perfection.
Bekah
who knows what this means because i don’t know.
tori morries
“Joanna,” began the master. “Are you not hungry? The cook made the epically.”
She dared not to look up into his eyes. She only stared harder at the table.
“It’s just a shame to see a fine meal like this go to waste. Please Joanna; eat some for me.”
She took up the fork and dug it deep into the pie in front of her. She took the food up to her mouth and finally took the bit.
“Very good,” clapped the master. “See; things aren’t as bad once you’ve tasted them, are they?”
oh what a sweet little entree, my minuet my nibble my nosh. there you are abashed and shy, hiding behind leaves and silk. you think I don’t see you but oh, of course I do, and I shall court you accordingly, with a caress of the knife and a flutter of my linens.
i got entree into his office by mistake, he mistook me as his secretary and gave me the instruction for the day, i tried to tell him that i was a nurse but he wouldn’t listen and continued in his musical voice, till he realized that the real secretary was standing with stack of papers at the door. He was momentarily abashed but was in no way to give away his authoritarian position and asked me dryly of who was I. I told him i was Melissa from New york here on a special visit to monitor the company’s annual manufacture.
TREE is my name. “en” is almost enable so . . . enable the tree. WOOH YEAH Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree enable the Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree WOOH go tree go tree go tree go tree go tree go tree go tree Remember my name and give me cookies, not the virus kind. Cookie was my friends name but he thought i was calling him fat. He wasn’t fat though just a little chubby. We called him cookie because his mom made REALLY good cookies.
entrée |ˈänˌtrā; ˌänˈtrā| (also entree)
noun
the main course of a meal.
• Brit. a dish served between the fish and meat courses at a formal dinner.
ORIGIN early 18th cent. (denoting a piece of instrumental music forming the first part of a suite): French, feminine past participle of entrer ‘enter’ (see entry ).
Om nom nom, said Elisa. “I love this, it’s so tasty.” But really it was a head, and the soup was human broth. She didn’t know that was what we were having today.
Isis
“Mmm, that’s an extremely interesting flavor,” she starts, after tasting the stew for the first time. “I like how tender it is.”
“You’d be surprised,” I reply. “Sometimes, there is no skill involved at all. More luck than anything. It’s not like I can go and kill the person…er, I mean…kill the cow myself.” and I fork another helping into my mouth, mostly to shut myself up but also because I enjoy a woman’s calf the most.
The canapes will be iron fillings
The entree razor blade
The starter jellyfish
The main a cannon ball
The desert silver shavings
The aperitif – a shot of lava
Entree. Entree. Entree. I have such a horrible relationship with food right now, I can’t even write about this specific word. I just like that it’s French. French is such a beautiful language. France is such a beautiful country. One day, I’ll visit France, & one day I too will speak French.
“Hereinspaziert, hereinspaziert! Meine Damen und Herren, heute bieten wir Ihnen wieder spektuakuläre Einblicke in das menschliche Gruselkabinett. Siamesische Zwillinge, an den Füßen verbunden. Männer mit Brüsten, Frauen mit Bärten. Kinder mit Schwänzen. Hereinspaziert, hereinspaziert.”
The waiter removed our entree dishes and waltzed back to the kitchen with them. We were all sitting in silence. It was strange. Mealtimes used to be happy occasions spent chatting. But here, meals were solemn, muted affairs where manners and the respect of ritual were paramount. As I looked up from the white tablecloth I locked eyes with the girl sitting opposite me, she allowed her eyes to smle. I almost grinned in return, but censored myself at the last moment. Smiling at the table wasn’t acceptable and would get me into a lot of trouble if I were spotted by one of the adults that were sitting around the large, eighteen place setting dining table. They deliberately placed themselves in scattered positions amongst the children so as to allow them to monitor our behaviour.
It was her entree that was the problem. The peas were good, the rice was great. If he could be happy with peas and rice — oh, and the salad, of course — then dinner would be happy. But she knew the entree was inadequate, and was the whole problem. Actually, he was the whole problem.
My favorite thing in the world is food! A tasty meal that I can dig into, an experience no one but me gets to have for the particular food in front of me. I take a bite, and it tastes so good, I want to cry. It was my mother’s recipe. May she rest in peace. I hope she is proud of the adaption I have done of her entree. I miss you, Mom.
Food is all I can smell. I am so excited to dig into this tasty plate the restaurant has made up for me. It looks so good. The whole building is filled with the smells of cooking, foods, and the sounds of satisfied tummies. The entree in front of me looks too good to be true, all the food arranged so perfectly and beautifully it makes me sad to ruin it by eating it. I pick up my fork anyway, and dig in, lifting the delectable food to my mouth and letting out a satisfied sound when I swallow. Ah, it is perfection incarnate. Tiermasou, I believe, is the name of the dessert I chose, and translated, it means: perfection.
who knows what this means because i don’t know.
“Joanna,” began the master. “Are you not hungry? The cook made the epically.”
She dared not to look up into his eyes. She only stared harder at the table.
“It’s just a shame to see a fine meal like this go to waste. Please Joanna; eat some for me.”
She took up the fork and dug it deep into the pie in front of her. She took the food up to her mouth and finally took the bit.
“Very good,” clapped the master. “See; things aren’t as bad once you’ve tasted them, are they?”
oh what a sweet little entree, my minuet my nibble my nosh. there you are abashed and shy, hiding behind leaves and silk. you think I don’t see you but oh, of course I do, and I shall court you accordingly, with a caress of the knife and a flutter of my linens.
Don’t run. I am here. I shall eat you alive.
i got entree into his office by mistake, he mistook me as his secretary and gave me the instruction for the day, i tried to tell him that i was a nurse but he wouldn’t listen and continued in his musical voice, till he realized that the real secretary was standing with stack of papers at the door. He was momentarily abashed but was in no way to give away his authoritarian position and asked me dryly of who was I. I told him i was Melissa from New york here on a special visit to monitor the company’s annual manufacture.
TREE is my name. “en” is almost enable so . . . enable the tree. WOOH YEAH Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree enable the Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree Tree WOOH go tree go tree go tree go tree go tree go tree go tree Remember my name and give me cookies, not the virus kind. Cookie was my friends name but he thought i was calling him fat. He wasn’t fat though just a little chubby. We called him cookie because his mom made REALLY good cookies.
what u get for a meal
An entree is the main course to breakfast, lunch and dinner.
i dont know what this means so i dont know what to say to this word so flip snap krackle and pop peoples
Whenever I go to a resturant the entre’e is usually chips and salsa.
haha. thats funny. i always thought that that word started with an a. tree is my friend.
I had never had an entree at least not that i remember!!!!
An entree is an enterance of something.
entrée |ˈänˌtrā; ˌänˈtrā| (also entree)
noun
the main course of a meal.
• Brit. a dish served between the fish and meat courses at a formal dinner.
ORIGIN early 18th cent. (denoting a piece of instrumental music forming the first part of a suite): French, feminine past participle of entrer ‘enter’ (see entry ).
Om nom nom, said Elisa. “I love this, it’s so tasty.” But really it was a head, and the soup was human broth. She didn’t know that was what we were having today.
“Mmm, that’s an extremely interesting flavor,” she starts, after tasting the stew for the first time. “I like how tender it is.”
“You’d be surprised,” I reply. “Sometimes, there is no skill involved at all. More luck than anything. It’s not like I can go and kill the person…er, I mean…kill the cow myself.” and I fork another helping into my mouth, mostly to shut myself up but also because I enjoy a woman’s calf the most.
The canapes will be iron fillings
The entree razor blade
The starter jellyfish
The main a cannon ball
The desert silver shavings
The aperitif – a shot of lava
Entree. Entree. Entree. I have such a horrible relationship with food right now, I can’t even write about this specific word. I just like that it’s French. French is such a beautiful language. France is such a beautiful country. One day, I’ll visit France, & one day I too will speak French.
“Hereinspaziert, hereinspaziert! Meine Damen und Herren, heute bieten wir Ihnen wieder spektuakuläre Einblicke in das menschliche Gruselkabinett. Siamesische Zwillinge, an den Füßen verbunden. Männer mit Brüsten, Frauen mit Bärten. Kinder mit Schwänzen. Hereinspaziert, hereinspaziert.”