Livers of fat geese. There's a pie!

"Now, look here!" he said. "In this paper," which was nicely folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money — sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And what do you suppose it's made of? Livers of fat geese. There's a pie! Now let's see you eat 'em." 

"Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much indeed, but I hope you won't be offended — they are too rich for me." 

"Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all understand, and threw them both out of window.

Bleak House (1853) 

Charles Dickens

the liver deliquesced

It was the porcelain spoons, five of them. Goldilocks waited, her unused hand tucked, in accordance with its training, into the small of her back, as if it were the rule that all non-serving parts of her body must be tidied deferentially from view. Perhaps it was.

Michael peered at the lumps, heat-edged with brown, in their drip of soup.

'What are they?' he asked.

'Foie gras, sautéed in oloroso sherry.'

'Mmm, foie gras,' he enthused, making a hash of the r.

He picked up one of the spoons and tipped it into his mouth. The liver deliquesced.

'Wow, that's fabulous!' He nodded with vigorous sincerity, and a gentle swirly drunken feeling lingered in the movement's echo. He closed his eyes to steady himself.

When he opened them, Goldilocks had gone.

He still held his phone in one hand, and the spoon in the other. The spoon went in his pocket.

Leo Benedictus

The Afterparty (2011)