Niles: Let's get some lights on. [claps]
Frasier: Good Lord, what the hell is that?
Niles: Maris had it made after she lost power in a storm. Battery operated, works on a clapper so you can find it in the dark. Only problem was, the poor thing, try as she might, could never clap hard enough to activate it.

Frasier: Oh, hello, Niles.
Niles: If my life gets any worse, I'm phoning Hell to ask about their exchange program.

Daphne: You dirty old man. Flirting with a girl her age.
Martin: Well, she was flirting right back. I saw her giving me the once-over.
Daphne: Yeah, she looked once and it was over.

Niles: Dear God, what's that?
Frasier: It's a small crack, a little bird flew into it the other day. I'm replacing the pane next week.
Niles: Next week?
Frasier: Yes.
Niles: Well, that's too late.
Frasier: It's just a piece of tape. No one will even notice.
Niles: You have no idea how cutthroat my rivals are. They will leap on the tiniest imperfection. Last night, Sebastian Melmoth threw a lavish Japanese banquet. A certain rival spent the entire evening carping about how the obis on the geishas' kimonos were improperly tied.
Frasier: "A certain rival?"
Niles: All right, me.

Frasier: I hope you're right about the alarm code, Niles. People do change them.
Niles: Maris will never change this one. It's her ideal weight. What she weighed at her debutante ball. Let's see, this many pounds, and that many ounces.
Frasier: Good lord, no one could weigh that and live.

Niles: Well, I'll just have to have the party somewhere else.
Frasier: But Niles, you promised you'd have it here. You promised me Claudia Kynock.
Martin: Nobody's gonna notice that window, and besides, who else is gonna loan you their place? It's not like you can ask Maris.
Niles: I don't have to ask her. She's out of the country. She's in Antwerp having her elbows done.

Frasier: So, Niles, Maris at it again?
Niles: Oh, worse. It's so depressing I can barely talk about it. My gourmet club is holding elections to see who will win this year's Golden Apron.
Roz: Wait. I can see I'm gonna need a hanky for this.
Niles: [to waiter] Latte, please, to go. Normally, the finalists compete by giving lectures. I'd written mine, a waggish look at food fads of yesteryear entitled "Fondue: What Were We Thinking?" Suddenly last night, disaster. Someone proposed that instead of giving lectures, this year's finalists compete by hosting dinner parties in their homes.
Roz: So? Why don't you invite 'em all over and cook 'em a meal?
Niles: At the Shangri-La? I can't tell the cream of Seattle's gourmet set that I've moved out of the Montana and into that gulag with a game room.

Roz: Do you call that a problem? A problem is when your kid keeps you up three nights in a row with colic, and you're so burned out you rear-end a Lexus, with four passengers, each and every one a lawyer, so you'll probably be sued and spend the rest of your working life, if you ever even get a job, lining the pockets of four blood-sucking, whiplash-faking fat cats. That's what a problem is.

Niles: Well, don't blame yourself. Blame Claudia Kynock, the whole dinner scheme was her greedy notion.
Frasier: Claudia Kynock? Kevin's widow?
Niles: Can you believe it? She owns six newspapers and nine radio stations, she'll still cadge a free meal faster than that bulbous cartoon fellow who mooches hamburgers from Popeye. I know I must sound...
Frasier: Wimpy.
Niles: And whiny too.

Niles: But I wanted this. And after the year I've been through, I needed something to restore my pride, my dignity, my manhood. That Golden Apron could do it.