Word: wine
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Dates: during 1940-1940
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...believe Dr. Goebbels, post-war France was a politicians' playground, a hotbed of lewdness and corruption. If we are to believe "The Baker's Wife," it was a land of savory white bread and sparkling wine, the home of wholesome earthiness and tender charm. Whatever the historical truth, "The Baker's Wife" should manage to please everybody: Dr. Goebbels, because of its solid portion of "blood and soil"; and all the others, because of its warm humanity and charming malice...
Through his uncouth boorishness shines the "tendresse" that made, and permeates, the whole picture. The priest who retrieves the sinful wife on piggyback, and the wine, women and horse-loving marquis fill the gaps in whatever there is of social parody. Somehow "The Baker's Wife" leaves you with the impression that perhaps Dr. Goebbels has not seen all of France...
...once tried to stop him from entering a Nazi rally. "Better not go in there, buddy," said the cop. "They're all anti-Semites." There was the only normal Nazi, Rudolf Hess, called "Fraulein" because he is hysterical Hitler's nursemaid and governess. There was the ex-wine salesman, Joachim von Ribbentrop, who used to be much in demand for amateur theatricals in the homes of rich and cultured Jews, because he played effete Englishmen in Oscar Wilde plays. There was Gestapo Chief Heinrich Himmler, about whom the Munich police in 1923 made a mistake his secret police...
...conquering Germans have requisitioned nothing from unoccupied France because, except for its huge wine industry, no important staples come from the unoccupied area. Mother Filloux still serves her internationally relished goose-liver pâté and fat-breasted pullets on her terrace at Lyon. Broiled trout are still to be had at the famed little Hôtel du Château at Randan, and crawfish at Robinson's, outside Vichy. The good & great cooks of France will see that she goes hungry palatably. But there are no more tarts in Vichy. Apple tarts have disappeared from...
...affectionate, voluble, energetic, terrierlike man, Hans Zinsser had a strong fondness for wine, women, horses, books. Two years ago, returning from a junket to China, he noticed that the sun on ship board turned him not healthy brown but lemon yellow. He knew then that there was something serious the matter with his blood. Back in Boston, he consulted a colleague and friend, who told him, with "affectionate abstinence from any expression of sympathy," that he had leukemia. Looking out at the white sails on the Charles River, Zinsser realized that he was going to die. A great lover...