In Jane Turner Rylands's lovely collection of short tales - Venetian Stories - set in her adopted town is this little passage that simultaneously praises and damns the available fare:
The luncheon bore the pallid stamp of the standard Venetian caterer: the melange of sea minutiae followed by the sea bass in the company of Russian salad, green beans, and green salad, followed by the fruit tart, followed by coffee. She ate so little she thought she might fit into the Armani after all.
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