Monday, November 30th, 2009
You may not approve of the gangster lifestyle, but one thing that cannot be denied is that a true gangster always keeps his leading lady stylin’ and profilin’.
From Karen in Goodfellas to Kay in The Godfather, these ladies look like they just stepped off a catwalk at all times. That’s what drug and blood money can do for you. You don’t necessarily have to lead a life of crime to achieve this look (it helps, but you don’t have to), though there are some key factors involved in the gangstress get up.
Big Hair
As demonstrated here, to perfection, by Karen Hill in Goodfellas, big hair is a must have. No matter what the occasion, whether you’re chilling at home, attending a wedding, or hiding guns for your man, you should back comb that bad boy like your life depends on it.
Gaudy Jewellery
Quick side note: Was there ever a more perfect picture of a gangster’s moll? Ginger from Casino, with big hair, lying on a fur coat, in front of all those gems? Hello?!
As we can see, jewellery plays a big part in the wardrobe of the gangstress. You don’t have to wear a lot of it, but what you do wear should be big and gaudy. Earrings should rip your earlobes, bracelets should weigh your arms down and rings should have the ability to render someone unconscious if you knock them out.
Fake Nails
Though she gets a big Eurovision ‘nil point’ for the flat hair, Elvira in Scarface always made sure her nails were looking right. To be a gangster’s lady, fake acrylics are just part of the game. Straight up french manicure is all that’s required. It’s not advisable to have your man’s name airbrushed on them.
Unnatural Fibres
Carmela Soprano has been in the game a long time. She knows what’s what. Bitches, take note: big hair. Check. Gaudy jewellery. Check. Fake nails. Check. The last part of the gangstress ensemble, is unnatural fibres. Anything you wear should be highly flammable. The top Carmela’s wearing in that picture? If she goes within six feet of an open flame, it’s curtains for her.
So there you have it folks. Follow those four key rules and you can attend your man’s New Jersey court dates in style.
Tags: mafia, mafia chic
Posted in fashion | 6 Comments »
Monday, January 28th, 2008
We Brits have a terrible reputation when it comes to tipping. Though I think we get a bad rap. Really, we just have the right approach to it. Here’s our stance; a tip should be given when someone has gone above and beyond the call of duty or done their job exceptionally well.
Living in New York, I came to realize that tipping is expected and you should tip, basically, everyone you come in contact with, outside your circle of friends, on a daily basis.
And it’s horse turd!
I particularly hate that I’m expected to tip cab drivers. It’s their job to drive people from A to B and soon as they turn the meter on, they’re getting paid to do just that. There’s no special service involved. It’s not like you’re in a stretch limo, chilling in a Jacuzzi while some Adonis sucks on your toes (now that deserves a tip). No, you’re in a New York City cab, which has probably been vomited, defecated and fornicated on more times than you wish to know. Shoot, they should pay you to get in the damn thing.
I worked at a popular midtown hotel as the hostess at the restaurant to make some extra cash while freelancing. One night, the barman had a bitch fit when some (British) customers left without leaving a tip.
“But I served them all these drinks and talked to them!” he cried.
Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that your job? You get paid an hourly rate for that, no? You filled out an application knowing the said hourly rate was crappy, didn’t you? Then stop your whining, bitch! You don’t get a tip just for showing up to work.
The same goes for the doorman. Bitching every time someone didn’t kick him a couple of bucks for opening the door or carrying their suitcase. I’m perfectly capable of opening the door myself and carrying my own bag. Just because you filled out an application to do it, doesn’t mean I owe you shit.
In the restaurant, people would try to tip me for hanging their coats or showing them to their table. I thought it was stupid. One guy tried to tip me $20 for hanging his coat up. I gave it back. I hadn’t hung the coat in a special way or dry cleaned it while he ate, so what exactly warranted giving me $20? (Yeah, I accepted a $100 tip when the mafia dined there, but I earned that!)
One thing I think people who work in the service industry in New York fail to understand is that tipping is still, technically, optional.
Once, some friends and I went for brunch at a spot downtown. Our waitress was particularly unimpressive; moody, impatient and not that great at her job. I know you can’t bring you’re A-game all the time, but if you want a tip, it’s a good idea that you do. But, because they all assume they’re getting a tip, quality of service doesn’t seem to matter all that much.
At the end of the meal, we paid and reluctantly left a tip. As we were leaving, the waitress followed us out and did probably the rudest of rude things ever done; informed us that we had not tipped enough. In what universe is it even acceptable to say that? Especially when you’ve been given crappy service. We pooled a few more pennies together just to get her off our backs and never went back there again.
Back in England, people are slowly coming around to the idea that it’s probably a good idea to tip in certain situations and it’s become more of a custom, but we are yet to reach the New York standards of ridiculousness on the tipping front.
So, if you’re ever in London and a cabby takes you from one end of the city to the other, via Wales and expects a tip, British custom dictates that you should laugh in his face.
Tags: cab drivers, mafia, new york, rude waitresses, the brits, tipping
Posted in life | 2 Comments »
Wednesday, December 19th, 2007
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.
Tags: mafia, new york
Posted in life | 9 Comments »