Word: nez
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...stares, the town learned last month that it's not as isolated as it seems: half of Dosbarrios' 2,400 residents have put their money into an allegedly fraudulent stamp investing scheme that has rocked Spain. "Before, our economic health was very good," says Mayor Juan Bautista Martínez. "Now, it's so-so." Dosbarrios residents are closely watching the unfolding investigation into Afinsa Bienes Tangibles and Forum Filatélico, two investment companies that [an error occurred while processing this directive] specialize in valuable stamps. At the start of the investigation, nine executives of the two firms were...
...star Michelin legend, and in the countryside, Etxebarri, where chef Victor Arguinzoniz takes such pride in his grilled meats and fishes that he bakes his own charcoal out of different tree branches every morning in an oxygen-controlled oven. At the Guggenheim in Bilbao, a prodigy named Josean Martínez Alija, 27, is winning accolades for dishes like roasted tomatoes stuffed with baby squid and candied cod in garlic oil. Most famously, there is Ferrán Adriŕ of El Bulli, two hours north of Barcelona in the seaside town of Roses. A food alchemist, Adriŕ has inspired a generation...
...gumshoe has an unusual specialty: finding fictional characters who take on a life of their own, a hazard any novelist would recognize. That's what brings Luís María Peñuelas, a writer of popular westerns, into Clot's office seeking help. Mabel Martínez, heroine of Penuelas' latest work in progress, has escaped from the pages, Roger Rabbit-style, in apparent despair over her creator's inability to advance the story. Other wayward women clot Clot's life. His ex-spouse ("for a good-looking woman she was beautiful") won't take his videophone...
...could be a Washington or a Jefferson or, impudently, a Robert E. Lee. You could gain some weight, acquire pince-nez and an air of temerity and be Theodore Roosevelt. You could buy a long cigarette holder and do F.D.R...
...road, great white-columned English mansions stand empty like haunted houses, their walls mildewed, their gardens overrun with weeds, moisture dripping from their eaves. In the Strand Hotel, a grand monument to colonial decay, ceiling fans turn lazily above a lost-and-found case still stuffed with pince-nez, ladies' compacts and rusting cuff links misplaced during an age of vanished elegance. Around the lobby, black-tied men in curry-stained white coats serve up tea and porridge on tarnished silver trays. "Here, you must always remember," says an official, in the lovely English she learned under British rule, "that...