Diane: Dr. Weinstein.
Sam: Uh-uh, uh-uh.
Diane: You swine. It's one thing to pretend to be somebody else on the phone, but convincing others that you're a sophisticated gourmet is a little bit more than you can handle. You're going to blow it, Sam. You're going to be embarrassed in front of some of the most important people in Boston. And then you're going to slink out of here with your curly little swine tail between your legs.
Sam: You don't think I can handle this? Well, just watch. Excuse me, we'd like to start off with Bouches Parmentier au Fromage, followed by a salade maison, and for our entre, we'll have Tourte Froide D'Anguille Rabelais. Thank you so much.
Diane: Good, Sam; that was your busboy.
Sam: I knew that. He's got lips. He can tell the waiter, can't he?
Diane: Bon appetit, Dr. Weinstein.

Norm: That's, uh that's quite an achievement, though, Cliffie.
Carla: Oh, yeah? Look who's talkin'.
Norm: Oh, okay, all right. I know some people around here don't exactly think that I'm an overachiever, but, uh I'll tell you, I don't plan to go to my grave until I've made some sort of impression on this world.
Carla: [looks at Norm's bar stool] I'd say you've already made a deep one.

Sam: Say, you know, Darlene and I can't make up our mind whether to have some chili or a hamburger. Maybe this Cafe joint sounds just like the ticket. Well, you got the number there? [Diane laughs] What? What's the number? What?
Diane: Pardonne mon laughteur, Sam. This is not the sort of place you just call and make a reservation. My dinner companion is a Brundage, and even with that pull, he had to wait three months for a table.
Sam: Ooh, geez, I wonder how long he had to wait for the chairs.
Diane: Look what I'm dealing with. You consider food as a fuel to be salted down heavily, covered with ketchup, stuffed in your mouth, and on a good day, chewed. What I'm trying to say is, Sam, you couldn't possibly get a reservation at this late hour.