The Jazz Age Bargain
Dorothy McKenzie stood over a copper still the size of a bathtub in her basement on Rivington Street, dipping a thermometer into the vapours and watching the mercury climb. One hundred and ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Close. Not quite there. She adjusted the burner, her hands moving with the unconscious precision of someone who had done this two thousand times. "Too much juniper," she said to no...
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