The Day I Met the Mafia
The restaurant had been all but shut down. Special linen had been purchased. An entire new menu had been created. All the managers seemed particularly on edge and had implemented a specific ‘if they ask, they get’ policy. Yes, this was the night the Mafia dined at my workplace.
The barman had told me the night before that they’d be coming. One of the restaurant managers had some kind of mob connection and made special arrangements for them to eat like kings. Having always had a keen interest (okay, obsession) with mafia culture, I was more than a little excited by this prospect.
By the next morning, when the news headlines consisted of the police digging up a construction site in Queens believed to be where John Gotti buried his victims, my excitement had turned to something resembling terror.
The night came and one by one, the Mafioso began to trickle in. All in exquisite suits, pockets squares matching ties, perfectly polished shoes and neatly coiffed hair. It was like something out of a movie. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I just stood there in awe at my hostess stand as they shook hands and kissed each other on the cheeks. Pinky rings, big bellies, laughter. I was like an extra on the set of The Sopranos. Unable to snap me out of my blank stare, one of the managers showed the guys to their table in the back.
With the strict no smoking policy in New York (though for some reason no one objected to cigars being smoked at the table), every couple of minutes, one of these gangster gentlemen would go outside for a cigarette, stopping each time for a bit of a flirtation with me. Coming back in from the cold, one of them paused to chat. He told me I should come to their table and sing for them. Through my laughter, I kindly rejected his offer, assuring him I can’t carry a tune. But he was persistent, grabbing me by my shoulders, leading me to the back of the restaurant to their table.
I shot a worried glance to my manager at the bar. He returned a look that said ‘don’t argue with this individual’. So, there I was, literally being dragged, kicking and screaming on the inside. This table of 20 mafia dons, in their Armani suits, plumes of cigar smoke veiling their identities, was a little intimidating to say the least.
‘She’s come to sing for us!’ he proudly announced to the table.
“Ay Bella!’ they shouted in unison.
‘Oh no, I can’t sing’ I say. ‘Seriously, you don’t want me to do this’. I pleaded, but they were undeterred.
‘C’mon Bella, just one song.’
Then, I don’t know what came over me, but I decided to take a chance. ‘Why don’t you sing for me?’ I asked. I then pictured my life ending St Valentine’s Day Massacre style for making such a ridiculous suggestion. But, it turned out, they liked the idea.
It was decided that Mario (their musical accompaniment for the evening) would do a little number for me.
I perched on the arm of my new friend Jimmy’s chair. As Mario was tuning up, one of the other fellas informed me he’d be singing in Italian. I asked Jimmy if he’d translate, he agreed.
Mario stood next to me and began his serenade. Being serenaded is a little uncomfortable at the best of times, but when you have 20 mobsters looking your way, it doesn’t give the experience that tender feeling one would hope for.
Mario crooned away in Italian. Each line ended with the words ‘Way Marie’. After three or four lines, I look to Jimmy for the translation.
“He’s singing about a woman,’ he tells me. ‘Her name is Marie.’ Blown away by Jimmy’s profound understanding of the Italian language, I focus my attention back on Mario and wait for this increasingly embarrassing moment to end.
Eventually, after what seems like an age, ‘Way Marie’ finishes to rousing applause. There was a sobering moment as I looked around the table. I was probably the only person who hadn’t killed someone, chopped them up and dumped the body on some waste ground in New Jersey.
Seeing this as my chance to return to the safety of the hostess stand, I thank Mario and the rest of the guys and begin to back away. But I don’t get a couple of feet before I’m dragged back and Mario launches into his version of ‘I can’t get no satisfaction’ by the Rolling Stones. His thick Italian accent made the rendition virtually unrecognizable, yet highly hilarious. The table erupts with laughter and claps to the beat. ‘In honor of the English!’ one of the guys shouts and everyone raises their glasses to me. I curtsy (then mentally slap myself for doing something so corny).
I thank them once again and attempt to slip away for a second time. By this time, Mario was in the middle of a full on Beatles medley. As I walked off, I felt a strong grip take hold of my hand and pull me back to the table. Lowering me so my eyes met his, I came face to face with Billy. Billy, I had figured, was the main Don at this gangster gathering. The epitome of ‘tall, dark and handsome’ butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I lost myself in those big brown eyes.
‘What’s your name again sweetheart?’ he asked.
‘Muireann’ I replied. I had to repeat this several times.
‘How’d ya spell that?’
I took a deep breath, knowing that this was not going to clear up the confusion but I spelt my name regardless, adding ‘It’s Irish, it’s not meant to make sense. My people have issues with spelling.’ I laughed nervously as his grip tightened and he pulled me closer to him.
‘Hey,’ he said, locking eyes with me. ‘They might spell things funny, but they don’t do things funny. You’re a very beautiful girl.’ I blushed, feeling half chastised, half complimented. I thanked him and as several of the men around the table invited me to join them for dinner, I managed to make my escape back to the front of the restaurant.
As I passed him, the barman winked at me. ‘Looks like you’ve got some fans,’ he said.
The rest of the night passed almost without incident (except for when a health inspector turned up for an impromptu inspection, as the Mafia sat puffing on cigars in the back). During one of his cigarette breaks, Mafia man Anthony, stopped to talk to me. He quizzed me about how long I’d been in New York and wanted to know if I had seen much of the city. I’d been there 10 months and hadn’t gotten to know the city nearly as well as I’d wanted to. Anthony kindly offered to show me around. I said OK.
‘Great, I’ll get your number when we’re leaving.’
‘OK,’ I said. I watched him walk back to the table and it slowly dawned on me; had I just agreed to go on a date with a Mafia soldier? How the hell do you get out of that one?
My mind went into overdrive. I imagined being asked to sing at a million other gangster gatherings, being barefoot and pregnant with Anthony Jr, the look on Anthony’s face when I asked for a divorce and I ran through the places I would like to live when I entered the Witness Protection Program. (I decided, if the police would allow it, I’d quite like Nantucket).
The meal ended and Billy strode down to the front of the restaurant to settle the bill (which, I overheard, was somewhere in the region of $3000). While the manager and Billy’s right hand man quibbled over the figures, Billy came to talk to me. He took my hands in his, commenting on how cold mine were and rubbed them to warm them up. I swooned. We laughed for a moment and he told me how adorable I was before being summoned back over to settle up. Once the money matters had been dealt with, Billy strutted back over to me, hands outstretched, presumably to keep warming me up. But this time I felt some paper transfer from his hand to mine. He held our hands together there for a moment.
‘Thank you sweetheart,’ he said and kissed me on the cheek. As he returned to his friends, I glanced back at the barman.
‘Fifty or a hundred?’ he asked.
I opened my hand and looked down. Sure enough, there lay a crisp $100 bill.
The night was far from over for the Goodfellas, but it was time for me to clock out. My managers shooed me back to the ‘mafiosi only’ section to say my goodbyes.
‘Aww Bella! Don’t go!’ a few of them said as they came up to give me a kiss on the cheek. The effects of the night’s numerous bottles of wine were beginning to show and as I left the loud laughter, thick New York accents and even thicker clouds of cigar smoke, I walked away from my gangster’s moll dream, after a night of a very real, very close up, gangster party.
