Word: ratione
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...spent a week in Saigon getting USAID identification cards, a px ration card, a Vietnamese driver's license, seeing Saigon and getting used to the look and feel of siege. At night I sampled the restaurants, favoring the old French Colonist haunts. The best of a good lot was a purely Vietnamese place, the My Canh, a floating restaurant tied up on the Saigon riverfront. It made news last year when a VC satchel charge ripped it and several patrons apart. As much as I enjoyed eating there, there was an indecent feeling about consuming sweet and sour pork, Carling...
Also named were a pair of law partners who had been associated with Marcus in various business deals and a bakery-union official convicted during World War II of ration-stamp violations. Then there was Henry Fried, 68, a onetime (1955-57) member of the New York State commission of correction and currently president of S. T. Grand, Inc., the construction firm that was given the Jerome Park job by Marcus-without competitive bidding...
...their homes, but they continue to live in the spirit of cruel dispossession. The roads and fetid alleys are still either choked with dust or, during the winter rains, awash in light brown mud. A few shops provide essential services-shoe repair, clothing-and the U.N.'s daily ration (1,600 calories in winter) can be supplemented at ramshackle fruit and vegetable stands. Menfolk gather, as they always have, in coffeehouses, to talk and sip thick, dark coffee...
...friend recalls how, when Johnson was a Congressman during World War II, he informed Cook Zephyr Wright that he was bringing some important people home for a steak dinner. Unable to scrape up enough red ration stamps for steak, Zephyr fretfully asked Nellie Connally, wife of Texas' Governor John Connally, who was then a naval officer, what she should tell Johnson. "Nellie said to tell him that he's just like everybody else," said the friend. "Zephyr thought a moment and then said, 'Well, Mrs. Connally, you know he is like everybody else, and I know...
...helmeted Marine blinks in the afternoon light, cocks his head for a moment, listening intently, and then starts jogtrotting down the hill. With frayed trousers flapping and a cumbersome flak jacket jiggling against his bare chest, he makes his way through the debris of cartridge boxes and C-ration cans. Deep, viscous red mud sucks at his boots and oozes up to his knees as he struggles down the slope. Suddenly, from high above, comes a familiar, chilling whine. "Incoming!" someone yells, and the leatherneck flattens himself in the mud. The artillery shell bursts 50 yards from him, gouging...