The Mafia Cookbook

by Joseph Iannuzzi

  Supervising Agent Tony Amoroso showed up with the undercover agent as I was setting the table. He had to be joking! The guy Amoroso brought in, an agent named Rossi, was Italian all right. But he looked to be about sixteen years old. Marrone.

  STEAK

  3 tablespoons olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)

  1/2 cup crushed peppercorns

  5 (8-to 10-ounce) filets mignons

  1 cup Veal Stock (recipe above)

  2 ounces cognac (Rémy Martin preferred)

  3 tablespoons heavy cream Salt and black pepper to taste

  While olive oil heats in large frying pan, press peppercorns into both sides of steaks. Cook steaks in olive oil to your desired doneness (rare preferred). Remove steaks and place in 150-degree oven to keep warm. Add stock and cognac to olive oil and meat drippings in pan. Step back and ignite. After flame burns out pour heavy cream into mixture and cook over medium heat for roughly 5 minutes until mixture is reduced by half or less, stirring repeatedly. Season with salt and pepper while stirring. Spoon some sauce onto each plate. Place steaks on top of sauce and spoon remaining sauce over top of steaks.

  Agent Rossi was professional, and he was anxious, and as we wolfed down our steaks I gave him the lay of the land. “These aren’t just kids or bank robbers we’re dealing with here,” I explained. “They’re hardened criminals and killers. If you think for one minute that if they find out you’re an FBI agent you’re safe, forget it. They’ll chop you up and then grind up the parts so no one will ever find you. They’ll flush you down the toilet and your friends here will be burying an empty casket.”

  Then I played for Agent Rossi Tommy Agro’s infamous “eat the____ing eyes out of your ____ing head” tape.

  “What’s wrong, Agent Rossi? Don’t you like my steak? You look a little pale. You want to lie down?”

  Agent Rossi didn’t pass the screen test. He’d never be able to hack it. He knew it. We knew it. No hard feelings.

  Shrimp Scampi Gambino-Style

  HALLANDALE, FLORIDA, 1982 POOLSIDE AT THE DIPLOMAT HOTEL

  PEOPLE PRESENT:

  Joe Dogs Tommy Agro Checko Brown (Colombo soldier) Anthony “Fat Andy” Ruggiano (Gambino capo) Skinny Bobby DeSimone Paulie Principe and Frank Russo (Gambino associates and sluggers)

  Tommy Agro called at midnight.

  I was now in the habit of pressing the “record” button whenever I picked up the phone. I always made sure there was a fresh tape in the machine. The only person I didn’t tape, I wouldn’t tape, was Little Dom. It was part of the deal.

  “I’m here, Joey, at the Dip. Come and see me tomorrow.”

  “I’m hurt, T.A.” I whimpered. “I’m hurt bad. Please don’t hurt me anymore. I didn’t do anything wrong. Can’t it be over? Can’t we start fresh?”

  My begging was not a facade. I was really afraid. I hadn’t seen Tommy since the beating—five weeks ago—and I dreaded facing him so soon. My head was still a mess. The scars from the stitches were still raw.

  “Joey, I’m not gonna do nothin’ to you,” he said. “I’m down here for somethin’ else. Believe me, it’s all over. I’ll never do that again.”

  On the drive down 1—95 that morning I watched the Feds tailing me through my rearview mirror. I’d wanted to wear a wire, but they’d forbidden it. Said it was too dangerous so soon. The valet at the Dip barely recognized me, my head was so swollen. The Olympic-size pool was packed with tourists. Tommy’s cabana, complete with kitchen, was at the south end, near the wading pool. My stomach sank when the first guys I saw were Paulie Principe and Frank Russo, the two sluggers who’d helped Tommy beat me to a pulp. Then I spotted Checko Brown, the Colombo soldier, talking to Fat Andy Ruggiano, the Gambino capo. Bobby DeSimone, fresh from a stint in the joint, was sitting next to T.A. I stopped in my tracks and started to tremble. I was frozen to the pavement. Tommy came hurrying over.

  “Joey, don’t worry, relax. Didn’t I tell you we wasn’t gonna do that no more? Come over here, say hello to the boys. Cook us some food, Joey. We’re sick of this hotel____.”

  We made small talk for a while, then Tommy asked me to make the boys lunch. But first, he added, why didn’t I put on a swim suit. “I got an extra,” he said. “It’s hot out here, Joey. It’ll be hotter over the stove. Checko, get Joey a suit.”

  It was an odd request. Checko was fully dressed. So was DeSimone. Nevertheless, Checko and I walked to the cabana and Checko found the suit. I got undressed in front of him. The only place a wire could have been was up my rear. Checko didn’t check there. In the kitchen I started deveining the shrimp, watching Checko walk the fifteen paces or so back to the boys. When he reached them, the crew looked at me, then at Checko.

  “È pulito,” Checko said. He’s clean. What the hell? Did this moron think I didn’t understand Italian? Forgive and forget, right, Tommy? Enjoy the scampi, boys. And don’t choke on ’em.

  Shrimp Scampi Gambio-Style

  2 pounds shrimp (preferably under 15 to a pound)

  3/4 pound (3 sticks) butter, softened

  3 shallots, chopped fine

  4 cloves garlic, crushed and chopped fine

  Juice of 1/2 lemon

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

  1/2 cup plain dry bread crumbs

  1 egg yolk

  1 teaspoon Accent (optional)

  2 teaspoons Red Devil hot sauce

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Clean, devein, and butterfly shrimp. Place them in large, flat pan. Mix butter, shallots, garlic, lemon juice, parsley, bread crumbs, egg yolk, Accent, hot sauce, and salt and pepper to taste in bowl. Spoon over raw shrimp. Place under broiler for 3 to 5 minutes, checking occasionally so that they do not overcook. Spoon excess melted sauce over shrimp and serve. Serves 5. Add more shrimp for more people.

  Over lunch, with me still in my bathing suit, everyone talked a little more freely and came a little closer to me—except Principe and Russo, who stayed in the pool. I’d made the right move not wearing the wire. Business could now commence.

  Lobster Newburg

  SINGER ISLAND, FLORIDA, 1982 MY NEW APARTMENT

  PEOPLE PRESENT:

  Joe Dogs John Bonino (FBI agent, Joe’s undercover partner) Larry Doss Gunnar Askland

  I knew Agent John Bonino was going to make a good undercover partner when, over a delicious meal of veal and pasta marinara, I pulled my “chop you up and flush you down the toilet” routine on him and his only reply was to ask me what ingredients I put in my marinara sauce.

  Bonino was out of the Eye’s Chicago office, and the Feds in Washington were grubstaking us to an illegal after-hours club we’d use to sting the Florida mob. The bottle club was equipped with all kinds of surveillance cameras, and since I was now back in T.A.’s good graces, the Feds figured we’d pick up all kinds of good information. I passed John off as my money man—everyone knew I was broke since the beating—an old friend who wanted to get out of the drug-smuggling business and into a “legit” operation. The bottle club was the perfect cover.

  I was cooking for Bonino, Agent Larry Doss, and Agent Gunnar Askland in my new apartment in a high-rise on Singer Island. The Feds had sprung for apartments for me and John in the same building. Over cocktails, I mentioned to the agents that I’d been coming out of my barbershop on the Island that afternoon when I’d seen a car drive through the parking lot. A wiseguy named Skeets was driving, Johnny Irish was in the front passenger’s seat, and Tony Black was in the back. Nothing particularly odd. But there’s nothing particularly odd about this special dish, either. Sweet lobster with a rich béchamel sauce. Perfetto for those quiet evenings at home with the Feds.

  Lobster Newburg

  3 tablespoons clarified butter, melted and clarified by pouring off milky sediment

  1/2 teaspoon paprika

  1/4 cup cooking sherry

  1 quart Béchamel Sauce (see page 89)

  2 basil leaves

  4 to 6 drops yellow food coloring

&
nbsp; Pinch of salt

  1/4 teaspoon white pepper

  1 teaspoon chicken base or 2-3 chicken bouillon cubes dissolved in 1/4 cup water

  11/2 pounds lobster meat (Maine preferred)

  Put 21/2 tablespoons clarified butter in medium saucepan and heat until bubbly (don’t burn) over low flame. Add paprika and whisk vigorously. Add sherry, ignite, and cook alcohol off. When alcohol has evaporated, add béchamel sauce and stir until blended. Add basil leaves and simmer for 20 minutes (do not boil). Add food coloring, salt and pepper, and chicken base and simmer for additional 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove basil leaves. Coat separate frying pan with remaining butter and sauté lobster meat, stirring constantly. When hot, remove lobster and add to sauce. Simmer for additional 5 minutes and serve with yellow rice or rice pilaf. Serves 4.

  Midway through dinner the phone rang in my bedroom.

  “Hello?” Out of habit I pushed the “record” button on my nightstand.

  “I didn’t think you were home. You usually get the phone on the first ring.” It was Little Dom. Once I heard his voice I stopped the tape from recording.

  Dom told me to expect an invitation to his son’s upcoming wedding, and we were just making small talk when out of nowhere he asked cryptically, “My friend Johnny, down south there, you know who I mean?”

  He meant Johnny Irish. “What about him?”

  “He’s gone, Joey. Gone.”

  “Are you kidding me, Dominick?”

  “Hey, Joey! I don’t joke about something like that. My compare, Donny Shacks, he told me about six o’clock tonight that he was gone.”

  “Dom, he’s got to be mistaken,” I said. “I saw him with Tony Black and Skeets, driving around Singer Island late this afternoon. Around four o’clock.”

  “Hey, Joe, what the ____is wrong with you?” Dom said. “I don’t give a ____ if you saw him at five-thirty. He’s gone. Capisci?”

  I hung up the phone, went back to the dining room, and announced to the Feds that Johnny Irish had been whacked. We all skipped dessert. And nobody was ever charged with Irish’s murder.

  Caponata

  WEST PALM BEACH, FLORIDA, 1982 DON LUIGTS RESTAURANT

  PEOPLE PRESENT:

  Joe Dogs Tommy Agro Fat Andy Ruggiano Skinny Bobby DeSimone Frank Russo Paulie Principe

  Tommy Agro showed up at Don Luigi’s with the capo Fat Andy Ruggiano and the rest of his crew in tow. Bobby DeSimone. Paulie Principe and Frank Russo— the boys who, along with Tommy a few months earlier, had tried to shuffle me off this mortal coil. Don Luigi’s was owned by Don Ritz, a member of my crew, and I felt pretty safe there. I was wearing a wire. At first T.A. didn’t like having Ritz around because he thought he was Jewish. The mob is the most prejudiced group around, after all. But when I explained to Tommy that “Ritz” was a shortened Italian name, he cooled down,

  Don Ritz got everyone seated in a private room in the rear of the restaurant and I headed off to the kitchen to prepare my famous caponata, one of Tommy’s favorites. While I was cooking, Don Ritz, a stutterer, joined me. He looked nervous.

  “Christ, Joe, I can’t believe these guys,” he stammered. “They come down here, beat you, leave you for dead, and then they want you to cook for them? I wou . . . wou . . . wou . . . wouldn’t do it.”

  I laughed to myself. Don was a real nice guy. He had a heart of gold and he ran a fine restaurant. All he wanted to do in life was make good pizzas.

  “Yeah, Don, that’s just how they are,” I joked. “I hope they like the caponata, because they sure didn’t like the fettuccine I made. They almost killed me over it.”

  “I don’t know how you can joke around like that,” Don said. “Don’t you hate them?”

  “Nah. Why should I hate them? By the way, Don, you got any arsenic around here? I’m going to kill the whole group.”

  “Joe, quit ____ing around,” he said. “I just got this joint. I got a lot of money stuck in here. If you want to whack them, please do it somewhere else.”

  Don Ritz’s stuttering became even more pronounced when Bobby DeSimone walked into the kitchen. “Joey, Joey,” DeSimone said in that fag voice of his. “I was just telling Tommy that you make the best caponata I ever tasted. Can I watch?”

  “I’m glad you like it, Bobby, but listen, this ain’t my joint. So you can’t hang around back here. You’ll get in the chef’s way.”

  As DeSimone walked back out, I said loud enough for him to hear, “Don, hand me that stuff I wanted to mix into the sauce.”

  You could almost see the light bulb going off over Skinny Bobby’s head. He half turned, looked at me suspiciously, and continued out.

  “Wh . . . wh . . . why did you say that?” Don stammered. “Now he’s gonna tell them there’s poison in the sauce.”

  “____’em, I said. “Let ’em sweat a little bit.”

  Caponata

  3/4 cup olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)

  2 large onions, chopped into 1/4-inch cubes

  4 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped fine

  1/2 pound prosciutto, sliced and cut into 1/2-inch pieces

  2 slices bacon

  2 cans jumbo black olives, pitted and sliced (each can 53/4 oz. drained)

  1/2 cup heavy cream

  11/2 pounds perciatelli pasta

  1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  3 egg yolks, beaten

  Heat olive oil in large frying pan. Add onions and garlic and sauté until translucent. Add prosciutto and bacon and cook until bacon is crisp. Remove bacon and discard. Add olives and cook until very soft, stirring often. With a slotted spoon, remove all ingredients to a bowl and pour cream into olive oil. Whisk with wire whip until texture develops. Return all ingredients to pan. Sauce is finished. Keep hot. Meanwhile, pasta should be boiling. Cook it al dente. Drain, but do not rinse. Put pasta back in pot. Add Parmesan cheese, toss, and stir. Add egg yolks slowly, tossing pasta as you do so until pasta is thoroughly covered. Place on large platter, spoon sauce over pasta, and serve. Serves d.

  I spooned the sauce over the perciatelli and told Don to serve it to the crew while I washed up. He brought it out and three or four minutes later walked back into the kitchen smiling.

  “They want you to eat with them,” Don said without a stutter. “They’re waiting for you before they start.”

  I walked out of the kitchen with a grin. “C’mon, fellas, dig in.”

  “After you,” Fat Andy insisted. “Here, Joey, let me put some on a plate for you. I mean, after all, you did all the cooking and we want to show our appreciation. Honey? Honey, bring Joe Dogs a nice scotch. Dewar’s, isn’t it, Joe?”

  Andy filled my dish and told me to dig in while he and the other guys filled their plates. I took a couple of healthy bites and licked my chops. Everyone stared.

  “Aren’t you guys going to eat?” I asked as I filled my mouth again. They started eating, and the compliments began rolling in.

  Bracciole

  NORTH MIAMI BEACH, FLORIDA, 1982 FAT ANDY RUGGIANO’S HOUSE

  PEOPLE PRESENT:

  Joe Dogs John Bonino Fat Andy Ruggiano Sal Reale (Gambino soldier) Ronnie “Stone” Pearlman Junior “Fingers” Abbandando and Gerry Alicino (Gambino associates) Skinny Bobby DeSimone

  FBI agent John Bonino—aka drug smuggler John Marino—and I were invited to the Gambino capo Fat Andy’s house to pick up a $25,000 shylock loan. We’d told him we needed it to start our illegal gambling joint—disguised as a “bottle club”—in Riviera Beach. It would turn out to be the largest illegal loan ever taken by an undercover Fed from the Mafia, and John would get lots of awards for it. It would also be introduced as evidence, later, during Fat Andy’s racketeering trial.

  Fat Andy’s crew met us in his driveway. There was Sal Reale, a made member in Fat Andy’s gang. And Ronnie “Stone” Pearlman, who could only be an associate because he was a Jew. (The Mafia not being an equal-opportunity employer.) Junior “Fingers” Abbandando, who got a discount a
t the manicurist because he only had nine fingers, was there. Bobby DeSimone and Gerry Alicino were standing on the porch.

  The crew had met John once, and they were at ease, so we talked about the club, the different prices for building materials, where to get blackjack and roulette tables, that kind of thing. John and I were both wearing Nagra body recorders.

  After an hour, Fat Andy asked me to join him in the kitchen to whip up some grub. Sal Reale followed me in.

  “Joe, just how well do you know this guy John?” Reale began. There was a menace to his voice. “We’re giving him the loan only because of you. You understand that, don’t you? Your friend T.A. said that you’re tops with him. So that’s why we’re doing it.”

  “Well, if Tommy said all these nice things about me, what the ____are we talking about here?” I bluffed, turning to Fat Andy. “Did you bring me in here to read me the riot act or to cook dinner? I feel insulted, Andy. Look, forget the loan. I’ll get it for John somewhere else. See you at the club.”

  1 turned for the door and felt a hand on my shoulder. 1 almost crapped in my pants. I was sweating so much 1 was afraid I’d short-circuit the Nagra. It was Fat Andy’s paw.

  “Joe, don’t feel insulted.” He was being conciliatory. “Sal didn’t mean no harm. He just asked you one little question, that’s all. Come on now, shake hands, and make us something nice to eat.”

  Sal and I shook hands, and laughed. “Marrone, what a hothead,” he said as he tried to hand me the money.