. . . .the Monkey Glands at Maxim’s. . . .the Saratoga chips at the Crillon bar. . . . the umbrella I left at Zelli’s. . . .the nine cointreaux I engulfed during the entr’acte of “Oh! Quel Nu!”. . . .the purple dress coat in the window of Jack de New York. . . .
1945, Elliot Paul, I’ll Hate Myself in the Morning and Summer in December, Random House, page 81:
There wasn’t much labor or exertion involved, but François’ ideal, expressed in a moment of candor (after two double Cointreaux) to a Variety reporter at the Mocambo one night, was to do no work at all.