“The only difference between organized crime and the government is that we are actually organized.” – John Gotti
I was born and brought up in Mississippi and the occasional Air Force base elsewhere. Everything down to my bone marrow is Deep South, and that’s what I’ll leave as. I’m 100% fried chicken and 0% Chicken Cacciatore.
But my much-loved father had been born and lived in Brooklyn ‘til age 18 when he was in the service and met my mother. They got married in Memphis, and he shucked his Yankeehood forever. My mother’s large family adopted him and pronounced him, now and for all time… An Official Rebel Southerner.
My dad did not totally abandon his Italian family in New York however. Every year he would haul us up to my other grandparents for about a week’s visit. We would visit my paternal grandparents and any assorted visiting relatives.
One of our favorites was my Uncle Sandy, a blond haired blue eyed Sicilian, always impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and tie. He was married to my aunt, but being heavy duty Catholics they were “legally separated” for many decades.
As a kid, I always wondered why my grandparents wouldn’t let him come to their floor to pick us up for an outing in town. He had to ring the buzzer and speak.
He was a “restaurateur,” although I can guarantee he never cooked an egg in his entire life. Or piece of toast. He was more…uh…like management. Sandy had three restaurants, Italian of course, in really expensive areas of New York City.
You’re probably wondering where this is going. If you ever watched “The Sopranos” or “Goodfellows” you will realize that my Uncle Sandy worked, shall we say, in a very specialized business. In a middle management position. In Marlon Brando lingo, he was a “Made Man.”
His “company” and partners had restaurants that fulfilled multiple roles. In the back rooms “board meetings” were held and often times truckloads of various items were stored.
For the most part, these products had somehow gotten lost by their original owners. Maybe they held them until those people could locate them? Like a big game of Lost and Found? What good citizens!
Also, even though they actually did own a number of laundromats, the restaurants did a lot of laundering themselves. And God knows what else.
The last time my brother and I visited NYC was 1971. I was a punk 20 year old hippy and so were my two cousins. Calling my grandparent’s place, my Uncle Sandy asked us if we wanted to go have lunch at one of his eateries and then go to one of those giant ornate movie theaters in Manhattan. We would meet him there.
His daughter (my cousin Sondra) and her brother Frank came to pick us up. We got there early, so we just sat at a table and ordered iced tea in honor of us Southerners. It just happened to be the cheapest drink.
New York waitresses can be rude and crude. What she saw in her head was four broke hippies getting free air conditioning and taking up one of her tables during a busy lunch time. She had no clue. At all.
She slammed the glasses on the table, growling the whole time. When we asked for refills, she threw tea into the glasses. Tea splatters were all over the really nice table cloth. Cussing out loud about “those damned hippies!” she kept bugging us to order. Finally she just stopped responding at all.
Now, cousin Sondra was the daughter of a Mafia lieutenant and was starting work as a model in New York City for Vogue and other magazines. Not a meek personality by any measure.
But she just sat quietly with a slight smirk painted on her face.
Just then, the staff of the restaurant all suddenly got very busy and had the look of caged rabbits being circled in their cage by a Bengal tiger. “He’s here!”
My uncle burst through the front door waving his hands at us and in a booming Sicilian voice was yelling “Come here you!” He was jubilant to see us. Overjoyed.
He hadn’t seen us in two years and wanted to hear how things are going for us.
After a round of hearty Italian style bear hugs, as only they can do, we sat down to order lunch. Sondra couldn’t hold back and was laughing an evil laugh on top of her look. Her dad had to ask her, “What’s up?”
“Oh nothing.”
The waitress shot to our table at a speed most Olympians would envy. I think she burnt the soles of her shoes off in the Five Yard Dash. Her eyes made contact with my cousin’s with that “deer in the headlights” plead for mercy.
Sondra didn’t rat her out, but she had the girl glued to only our table refilling the ice tea every time we drank two sips. Kow-towing like a Japanese geisha… wondering when the shoe would drop. Probably needed heart medication after that work day.
Good service is important.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 36 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 36 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
