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“Dolce is Italian for sweet, and it applies not just to music and food, but also to life itself. Just as every meal should end with something sweet, so should every life be filled with il dolce.”
― Susan Wiggs, Summer by the Sea

“The dolce itself, after so much rich food, was to be a straightforward one---the ricotta, with honey and a sprinkling of cinnamon, and a glass of vin santo, sweet white wine, into which would be dipped tozzetti, handmade hazelnut biscotti.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“His antipasto was the classic Roman fritto misto---tiny morsels of mixed offal, including slivers of poached brains and liver, along with snails, artichokes, apples, pears, and bread dipped in milk, all deep-fried in a crisp egg-and-bread-crumb batter. This was to be followed by a primo of rigatoni alla pajata---pasta served with intestines from a baby calf so young that they were still full of its mother's milk, simmered with onions, white wine, tomatoes, cloves, and garlic. For the secondo they would be having milza in umido--- a stewed lamb's spleen, cooked with sage, anchovies, and pepper. A bitter salad of puntarelle al' acciuga---chicory sprouts with anchovy---would cleanse the palate, to be followed by a simple dolce of fragole in aceto, gorella strawberries in vinegar.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“The sauce. Memories flooded into her brain. It was zabaione. She had a sudden vision of herself, that first night in Tomasso's apartment, licking sauce from her fingers.
Coffee. The next taste was coffee. Memories of Gennaro's espresso, and mornings in bed with a cup of cappuccino... but what was this? Bread soaked in sweet wine. And nuts--- a thin layer of hazelnut paste---and then fresh white peaches, sweet as sex itself, and then a layer of black chocolate so strong and bitter she almost stopped dead. There was more sweetness beyond it, though, a layer of pastry flavored with blackberries, and, right at the center, a single tiny fig.
She put down the spoon, amazed. It was all gone. She had eaten it without being aware of eating, her mind in a reverie.
"Did you like it?"
She looked up. Somehow she wasn't surprised. "What was it?" she asked.
"It doesn't have a name," Bruno said. "It's just... it's just the food of love.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“Da quel momento divenne il mio angelo custode: vestito a modo suo, con i capelli dritti in testa, matto come pochi, dolce come nessuno mai.”
― Cristel Anna Notarianni, Bisbigliando - Sussurri di mezzanotte

“She comes downstairs and is surprised to be handed a curious-looking bouquet.
Only on closer inspection does it become apparent that this is, in fact, a bunch made up of candied flowers---pale orange blossoms, bright blue florets of borage, even tender young rosebuds, all encased in hard, clear shells of sugar, like tiny caramel apples.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“For sheer showmanship, it is hard to beat the creation of a really flashy dessert. Without asking Benedetta's permission, Bruno assembled his ingredients. Eggs. Sugar. Cream. Pastry. A large dish of black currants and other fruits from the garden.
First he spun sugar into delicate lattice bowls of crisp brown caramel. Then he made meringues, inside which he placed individual baked peaches. Where the peach stone had been, he inserted a berry gelato, made with pieces of solid fruit.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love