Word: whiskeys
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...disturbed Monte Carlo. New-rich Germans arrived to spend the proceeds of the loot of France. Collaborationists and refugees with more money than respectability swarmed in. Prices soared. The average price of a meal in 1942, was $24. Wine and liquors easily added another $100 to the bill. British whiskey and gin were $40 a bottle. Good brands of British cigarets were $22 for 50. Food was plentiful and good for those who had the price. The Germans ordered an end of that, too, demanded rationing for neutral Monagasoues. The Government of Prince Louis II acceded...
...roulette was desolating. People played only 10-and 20-franc notes. The baccarat game . . . closed for lack of a banker. The barman at the Casino sold his last Henry Clay cigars for 1,000 francs. A few weeks ago they were 10,000 francs. Nobody wanted to buy whiskey. . . . Monaco is a desert...
...Minister Winston Churchill used to see the King one morning each week. Their sessions grew so long they were absorbing each other's entire half-day. Now Churchill lunches with the King one day a week, usually Thursday. Over grilled sole, or cold roast beef, washed down with whiskey and soda, the Prime Minister talks about the war, or the latest gossip of Downing Street. George VI and Churchill are gay and intimate friends, but Churchill does most of the talking. Churchill serves the King competently and with abiding respect, calls his monarch "Sir." The King, in his chats...
...well-rounded curses against Jap interference with soldiers' already limited social life. Lieut. General Joseph W. Stilwell had ordered his men not to buy Scotch, rye or brandy ($30 to $50 U.S. per fifth). Reason: Japanese bootleggers were smuggling phony "American" brands into Free China. Some of the whiskey was poisoned...
...Ross, you ought to be ashamed. The Copley is just across the street from the Back Bay Station. When does a friend of the "New Yorker" get, off at South Station anyhow? All that indefinable air of well-being, good cigars and whiskey, that subtle compound of Brooks Bros., Yardley and Sulka disappear in a puff of smoke. The ruddy executive becomes a pathetic, puzzled little fellow in a battered fedora, clutching a suitcase in his arms and sweating profusely. He's probably run down at the heel, too. Hell, Harold, you might as well give him a dime...