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.

Sophia: Don't panic, I'm fine. I haven't had that much. Besides, you think I'd ruin Roberta's milestone birthday?
Rose: Milestone? She's 88.
Sophia: Right. After 80, every year without a headstone is a milestone.

[flashback:]
Dorothy: Ma, what are you doing here? You know you're not supposed to leave the home. You're still recovering from that stroke.
Sophia: What recovering? I'm back 100%, knock wood. [knocks] Come in!

[flashback:]
Sophia: What do I have to celebrate? That I have a miserable marriage and I'm leaving my husband?
Dorothy: You and Pop had a fight.
Sophia: You love to show off that college education, don't you?
Dorothy: OK, why are you mad at Pop?
Sophia: Because your father is a miserable, no-good, insensitive bum!
Salvadore: [o.s.] I heard that!
Sophia: Good, then hear this! May you lose the three hairs left on your head!
Salvadore: [o.s.] Oh, yeah? Well, may you lose your tweezers so your eyebrows meet to cover the wart in the middle of your forehead!
Sophia: That's not a wart, that's a beauty mark!
Salvadore: [o.s.] On Sophia Loren, it's a beauty mark! On you and Khrushchev, it's a wart!