Word: shrimps
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Weaver is a sybaritic, wholly citified man who loves Broadway plays, savors his stereophonic collection of Liszt and Chopin piano concertos, relishes Italian food (favorite is shrimp marinara), sips twelve-year-old bourbon when he works at home at night. He dresses in banker-conservative clothing, favors dark suits and dark Homburgs at the office, a plum-colored smoking jacket and black leather slippers at home. When he became HHFA director, Weaver promptly moved into an urban-renewed Washington apartment ("I wanted to put my money where my mouth was"), but within a year put his money into more luxurious...
Even so, Indians often ignore available food. Though Kerala fishermen haul in tons of shrimp, lobster, mackerel and sardines each year from the fish-rich Arabian Sea, the vast majority of the catch is sold for export, and Keralans use the money to buy extra rice at exorbitant black-market prices. They also largely ignore the sweet potatoes, bananas, pineapples and coconuts that abound in the state's lush tropical forests. And, though more Hindus discreetly eat meat, the vast majority in cow-rich India leave their beef on the hoof for religious reasons. Half of India...
...English, it seems, have never had the pleasure of eating English muffins unless they happened to come to the U.S. The closest thing they have to one is a toasted crumpet, which is about as close as a shrimp is to an oyster. And when playing pool in England, you can make a drastic mistake by complimenting someone on his "English." A Briton would prefer that you admired his "screw...
...long since concluded that New York is a vastly disappointing restaurant town, and the higher a restaurant's reputation the more demanding he seems to be. Said he of Voisin this year: "The egg en gelée was gross, the shrimp marseillaise was overcooked, although in an excellent spiced sauce, and the grilled sweetbreads Rose Marie tasted unpleasantly of smoke." The Colony, he says, can be worse. Best in the city, he insists, is Henri Soulé's Le Pavilion, followed by Joe Kennedy's favorite, La Caravelle. But the man from the Times...
...intoxicated by the rarefied air, shuffle about the floor in Pucci gowns, Marimekko shifts and madras jackets. For those who do not mind the cold (a windy 50°), there is dancing outdoors in a setting of spotlighted pines and crags. Refreshed by a late theater supper of shrimp Creole or beef stroganoff, customers spin on until 1 a.m., when the gondolas take them on a quick, sobering ride back to earth...