Sophia: Dorothy, let me tell you a story. Picture it. Sicily, 1922. A young military officer stationed far from home. He wanders the streets seeking a friendly face and a glass of Chianti. Finally, he happens into a dusty little cafe where he finds both. The man laughs for the first time in months. And finds inspiration in a beautiful peasant girl, wise beyond her years. When the cafe is closed, she takes him home with her. Three glorious days, they make love and drink wine. He returns to his command prepared to lead his people through whatever battles need to be fought. Dorothy, that young peasant girl was me. And that young man was Winston Churchill.
Dorothy: Ma, you made that whole thing up. Now what is your point?
Sophia: That I made it up. It was a little lie that gave me a lot of pleasure. If Rose is happy, and there was no harm done, let her have that.

Sophia: Reminds me of the place I met Charles de Gaulle. We were lovers, you know.
Raymond: Really?
Dorothy: Ma, that's a lie.
Sophia: Who asked you?
Sophia: Picture it: Sicily, 1921. A beautiful young peasant girl saves her lira and takes a trip to Paris, the city of lights, also the only place a guy can wear a cape without getting a lot of funny looks. She wanders into a restaurant and ends up sharing a table with a dashing young Frenchman. They drink, they talk, they burn a cork and draw mustaches on each other.
Raymond: What?
Sophia: Just wanted to see if you were listening. Anyway, the next thing she knows, it's hours later, the place is empty, and the Frenchman's got his schnoz down her blouse. This begins a beautiful love affair. Kids, I was that peasant girl, and the schnoz was Charles the Mole.
Raymond: Charles the Mole?
Sophia: Yeah, Charles the Mole. He was the wheel man for Louie the Ice Pick.
Dorothy: Ma, you said Charles de Gaulle.
Sophia: Yeah, right! I slept with Charles de Gaulle. I could've been the first lady of France, but I married your father instead. A man who cleans his toenails with a shrimp fork.

Blanche: Oh, hello there. I don't believe we've been introduced. My name is Blanche Devereaux. That's French for Blanche Devereaux.

Blanche: The last time a friend's sweetheart made a pass at me, I lost my friend and her beau.
Rose: And her beau?
Blanche: That's right. Anderbeau Johnson. Clyde Whitehead, Anderbeau's beau, decided he wanted to see my cheerleader's sweater from the inside. So when I told Anderbeau, she blamed the whole thing on me, and then Clyde would never speak to me again for telling! I lost Anderbeau and her beau! Now you understand why I can't tell Dorothy?
Rose: I don't even understand who Anderbobo is.

Rose: All I know is that Dorothy should find out what kind of a man Elliot really is. Now, if you're her friend, you'll tell her.
Blanche: But honey, she'd be devastated! What kind of a friend would I be to hurt her?
Rose: Well, what kind of a friend would you be if you let Elliot ruin her life? She could marry that man! They could have a child! ... They could adopt a child! And then one night at the country club, possibly during little Mei-Ling's coming-out party, Dorothy's having the time of her life when she goes to the powder room and she overhears the towel lady telling Mrs. Steinbeck that Dorothy's husband, Dr. Elliot Clayton, has bonged every female member of the country club. Can you let that happen to Dorothy? Can you let that happen to little Mei-Ling? Hasn't she suffered enough?
Blanche: Not as much as I have listening to that story.