Detective Butter, Voice of America Freudian Hallenbad, Se non é vero, é ben trovato
Seasonings, Wanderwoche Math - You get what it weighs, Jazz BandOchsenwirt
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Riffel's Detective Butter (1953)
  Oskar Riffel was the name of the grocer on the right side of the Kadettengasse just outside the baroque school gate. Since the next store was a half a mile away, old and grumpy Riffel had no competition with regards to his privileged location next to the school compound harbouring nearly three hundred souls. He sold everything: bread, dairy products, canned goods, even firewood and coal. Butter was a luxury brought in by a local farmer. In the post-war years, our breakfast consisted of a cup of disgustingly tasting coffee crudely referred to by us as "gorilla sweat" and of two slices of dark rye bread. Dinner existed of exactly the same!! In subsequent years, this meagre diet was greatly improved upon by the late arrival of the Marshall Plan at our school, spoiling us with such goodies as anchovy butter and Ovaltine. But before that happened, the capitalists among us would often go to Riffel and spend their pocket money on fresh butter. Riffel would cut a piece from a big block of butter and wrap it in wax paper, on occasion right after filling a bucket with coal for another shopper. As all of us were ardent aficionados of "Nick Knatterton", a comic strip about a grim detective with a hooked nose, we then sat together and studied the detailed curved patterns of Riffel's black fingerprints on the yellow butter.
This is how "Riffel's Detective Butter" became a trademark.
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Detective Butter, Voice of AmericaFreudian Hallenbad, Se non é vero, é ben trovato
Seasonings, Wanderwoche Math - You get what it weighs, Jazz BandOchsenwirt
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In the study room of each of the eighteen dorms there was the same radio of the somewhat unfortunately chosen brand name "Hornyphon" (the manufacturer bore the Czech family name Horny). Upon completion of our homework, we were allowed to listen to football matches and radio plays, mostly detective stories bearing such titles as "Gestatten, mein Name ist Cox". Alas, at nine o'clock in the evening the radio was turned off and we had to ready ourselves for bed. When the dorm master was temporarily absent, we released our extra energy with pillow fights. The pillows had many functions. One of them was to hide during the night a curious contraption consisting of a crystal receiver, wiring and an earplug. Thanks to this early "Sleep- Man" I was able to listen to the Voice of America, our entrance gate to the world of jazz, big bands and the voice of Eisenhower. There is no doubt in my mind that the Voice of America caused already early on the "Americanization" of Pan (as I was generally nicknamed). In occupied Austria, the presence of the American military along with the French, British, and Soviets, provided mysterious happenings ever so often recorded by Voice of America's news reports. Almost daily, unnamed persons were dragged from trains by Soviet occupation soldiers at military zone crossings, never to be seen or heard of again. With our noses pressed against the sooty train compartment window, we personally witnessed such an event on the Semmering pass while crossing from Lower Austria (Russian sector) into Styria (British sector) on our way from Vienna to Graz.