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: What's the most romantic thing a man did for you, Dorothy?
Dorothy: Oh, well, the most romantic thing was when Stan proposed. He took me to a very expensive restaurant, and I went to the powder room, and when I returned, there was an open bottle of Dom Perignon and two filled glasses. And we clinked the glasses in a toast, and Stan gave me a coy smile, and I winked at him, and then I just downed the champagne in one gulp. And it didn't go down smoothly. Later, Stan told me that he put my engagement ring in the bottom of the glass.
Rose: Aw. Aw.
Dorothy: It turned up three days later.
Rose: Where'd it turn up, Dorothy?
Dorothy: On the Home Shopping Network, Rose!

Rose: Blanche, what was the most romantic thing a man ever did for you?
Blanche: Oh, that's easy. When George and I were courting and it was getting to the intimate stage, we went for a date in his big old Packard. Well, halfway home, we ran outta gas. It was dark, it was cold. So we held each other close. Both of us knew, right then and there, this was the night. Sure enough, pretty soon the windows were all fogged up from the heat generated by our bodies. After we were married, I told George that the only thing that could've made that evening more romantic was if we'd had candles and wine and a big blanket. So, on our tenth anniversary, George fired up the old Packard, and we drove along the same route as on that date, and, would't you know, we ran out of gas on exactly the same spot. Well, George said, "Blanche, why don't you look behind that tree?" So I did, and there was a basket with candles and wine and two long-stem glasses and a big blanket. We had a perfect evening.
Dorothy: Oh. Oh, that is beautiful, Blanche.
Rose: But isn't it a shame you didn't look behind the tree the first time? You could have had two perfect dates.

Rose: Oh. I see you're with my two double-crossing ex-friends. I'll come back later.
Sophia: What do you think this is, the 7-Eleven? I'm not open all night.