The Mafia Cookbook
Page 7
“Sal, do me a favor,” I said. “Give it to John. It’ll make him feel respected if you were to hand it to him and make the arrangements about the vig.”
“Okay, Joe. After dinner.”
Bracciole
1/4 pound (1 stick) butter, melted
2 tablespoons olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)
8 (4-inch) pieces eye or bottom round steak, pounded thin with mallet
Salt and pepper to taste
4 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped fine
1 cup plain dry bread crumbs
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
4 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
Tomato Sauce (recipe on page 128)
Rub mixture of butter and oil into one side of each piece of meat. Rub salt and pepper into same side. Spread layer of chopped garlic over same side. Cover garlic with layer of bread crumbs. Cover bread crumbs with layer of parsley. Cover parsley with layer of chopped eggs. Roll and tie with sewing string (or secure with toothpicks). Fry over medium heat approximately 3 to 4 minutes until brown all over. Remove from frying pan and simmer in tomato sauce for 2 hours. Serves 4.
Over coffee Sal made a big show of handing John the money. Then they settled on the vig—a very reasonable two points a week. “Why choke the guy?” Fat Andy asked magnanimously. Little did he know who would eventually be choking on that loan.
Stuffed Shells with Tomato Sauce
KEW GARDENS, QUEENS, NEW YORK, 1983 TOMMY AGRO’S HOUSE
PEOPLE PRESENT:
Joe Dogs Tommy Agro Tommy Agro’s geisha girl
The phone was ringing as I walked into my hotel suite in Queens at eleven a.m., the morning after Sammy Cataldo’s wedding—Sammy was Little Dom’s kid. Tommy Agro was on the line, summoning me to his home.
Tommy had a beautiful mansion in Kew Gardens, Queens, with two marble fireplaces, including one in a master bedroom measuring one thousand square feet, and a spacious and spotless kitchen. Tommy’s wife Marian was now his ex-wife, and T.A. kept the house stocked with a bevy of exotic broads. I was shown into the living room by a comely little geisha.
“Here’s $1,200 for four weeks, Tip,” I said, handing him his juice. “I know the last week isn’t due yet, but since I’m up here you might as well take it.”
“Yeah, thanks, Joey,” he answered gruffly. “Let’s throw together some lunch, and then we gotta talk.” Something was definitely bothering him. Maybe my stuffed shells would soothe the savage beast. This is a three-part recipe—the meatballs for the tomato sauce, the sauce itself, and the cheese filling for the shells. It takes time but is definitely worth the wait and effort.
Stuffed Shells with Tomato Sauce
MEATBALLS
1 pound ground beef
1 small onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped fine
1 egg
1/4 cup ketchup
1/2 cup plain dry bread crumbs
Salt and pepper to taste
Mix all ingredients together and form meatballs. Set aside.
TOMATO SAUCE
3 tablespoons corn oil
Meatballs (recipe above)
1 pound sausage, cut into 3-inch pieces
2 (28-ounce) cans peeled tomatoes (Progresso Pomodori Pelati con Basilico preferred), crushed
1 cup chicken stock
2 (6-ounce) cans tomato paste
2 cups water (or chicken stock)
Salt and pepper to taste
Heat oil in pot over low flame. Sauté meatballs and sausage, turning occasionally, until browned (turn gently, so as not to break meatballs). Add tomatoes and cook over low heat for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. Once tomatoes have cooked, add chicken stock, tomato paste, and 2 cups water (or additional chicken stock). Stir gently to blend. Add salt and pepper to taste, and cook for 4 hours on low flame.
SHELLS AND FILLING
1 pound jumbo shells
3 cups whole-milk ricotta cheese (Polly-O brand preferred)
1/2 pound mozzarella cheese, diced
3 eggs
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Boil shells, drain, and run cold water over them. Mix ricotta, mozzarella, eggs, parsley, and salt and pepper in bowl. Put filling into each shell. Place thin layer of tomato sauce along bottom of baking pan. Place shells on top of layer of sauce and pour remaining sauce over shells. Sprinkle grated Parmesan over everything. Cover with foil and bake in preheated 350-degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes. Serves 4 to 6.
As it turned out, this was one fabulous culinary creation that I never did get to eat . . . at least not that day at Tommy’s house. For while the sauce was simmering, T.A. started fulminating.
“Listen, Joey, who’s this guy you brought up here with you?”
“He’s a good friend,” I answered. “Name’s John Marino. From Chicago. And I know him longer than I know you. What’s on your mind, Tip?”
“What’s on my mind is you’re sure he’s all right? I mean, you don’t have any illusions that you think you can bring a cop around here to try and get in with us, do you, Joey?” I had to hand it to T.A. His instincts were good, and sometimes he wasn’t as dumb as he looked.
“Look, Tom, in all due respect, I didn’t come here to be insulted, all right?” I said. “I told you who he was. If you’d like to check him out, be my guest. It would give me great pleasure to get an apology from you. John is my partner in the babonia. I earn off the guy.” Babonia was our word for drugs.
“So this guy’s your dope partner, huh?” Tommy growled. “Well, let me tell you something, Joey, and I’m only gonna tell you once. The boss, Big Paulie, he’s put out the word. No more drugs. He just had three made guys from Neil’s side of the famiglia whacked for dealing in that____. They were all with that c____er Gotti’s crew.”
T.A. was rolling now, as only T.A. could when he worked himself up into one of his apoplectic fits. His face was purple. The words were bursting out of his mouth at the top of his lungs. It was a good time to look for a place to hide. I saw none.
“So, Pippie, don’t make me have to tell you no more. Understand? Find some other way to earn. And if that guy John continues to do it, you’re going to have to answer for him. So tell him. Finito! Capisci? Don’t let me find out different.
“And don’t bring him around me. I don’t want to meet him. Fat Andy likes him? That’s fine. Put him with Andy. But you belong here, Joey, capisci? You aren’t going anywhere. But tell that guy John if he ____s with drugs, he’s going bye-bye and you’re the one who’s gonna send him off.
“Now get out of here. You make me lose my appetite. Go back to Florida and earn. Send me some money, you hump.”
Bouillabaisse
SINGER ISLAND, FLORIDA, 1983 MY APARTMENT
PEOPLE PRESENT:
Joe Dogs John Bonino Robbie (Colombo associate)
Three days after Christmas Robbie called. Robbie hung around Freddie Campo—one of the biggest bookmakers in south Florida. As part of the FBI sting operation, I was splitting a bookmaking halfsheet with him. John Bonino, the undercover, had all the agents calling in and making football bets, for evidence. Anyway, I’d told John that a few years earlier, Robbie had called me one day around three in the morning and said that a local lob named Stanley Gerstenfeld had been whacked. Stanley was a tough-guy wannabe and degenerate gambler. The State’s Attorney had called me in for questioning about Stanley’s murder because I’d brained Stanley in a local saloon a few weeks before he was capped, but I had an airtight alibi. The murder was still listed as “unsolved” on the Florida books.
At any rate, Robbie was the writer and collector on our book-making sheet, and it was time for our weekly payoff meeting. John told me to ask Robbie over for dinner and try to get him to open up about Stanley’s murder. Robbie was an egomaniac, and I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to pull his chain. He was in a good mood when he arriv
ed, and after he paid me my vig I opened a bottle of scotch. John and Robbie made small talk while I threw dinner together. A nice fish stew for someone who someday may sleep with the fishes.
Bouillabaisse
1/4 cup olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)
10 to 15 live blue crabs (quickly pre-boiled and cleaned)
3 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped
1/2 pound squid
1 pound shrimp (25 to 30)
12 to 15 clams
12 to 15 mussels
1 pound any nonoily fish (optional)
2 (28-ounce) cans Italian tomatoes (Progresso Pomodori Pelati con Basilico preferred)
1 pound linguine
Salt and pepper to taste
Heat olive oil in large pot. Place crabs and garlic in pot and toss or stir for 10 minutes. Place lid over pot and simmer for another 10 minutes. Add all other ingredients—except pasta—and cook over medium flame for 30 minutes, stirring often. Boil pasta, drain, and pour bouillabaisse over pasta. Serves 4.
As we were eating and talking, I brought up the subject of the late Stanley Gerstenfeld. “You know, Robbie,” I said, “Stanley had a hunch that something was wrong, because before he died he kept trying to reach me. In fact, he did reach me, and wanted to talk to me, but we never got together. I think he knew what was coming.”
“He didn’t know a ____ing thing,” Robbie spat out, like a true tough guy. “When I put the bag over his head, then he knew he was going. I put three or four in his head, and one in his heart so he wouldn’t bleed all over the car.”
“Oh, does that stop the bleeding?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Yeah, Joey. You’re putting me on. You know it does.”
This entire conversation took place right in front of John, who did the right thing by sitting there nice and quiet, just listening and letting that little Nagra tape recorder roll under his shirt. We got the whole thing on tape. But the authorities never went after Robbie—maybe it was just a good story. Who knows?
After Robbie left I mentioned to John that, deep down, Robbie was nothing less than a maniac. “Did you hear him say he wishes he was Italian?”
“More Italians like him we don’t need,” John answered. “We need some nice quiet ones, like your pal Tommy A.”
Veal Oscar
HALLANDALE, FLORIDA, 1983 TOMMY AGRO’S HOTEL SUITE
PEOPLE PRESENT:
Joe Dogs Tommy Agro two Chinese hookers
Tommy called at the end of January. He was down south in his suite at the Dip, and he wanted me pronto. He had two Chinese hookers with him and he needed me to cook dinner. What began as an ordinary evening—-I didn’t wear a wire that night; too dangerous—ended in an epiphany. But first we ate. Tommy had the hotel’s kitchen send up everything I needed for my four-star Veal Oscar with hollandaise sauce.
Veal Oscar
4 veal cutlets
2 tablespoons olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)
2 (8-ounce) cans crabmeat
1 bunch fresh spinach, stemmed, washed, and steamed
Hollandaise Sauce (recipe on page 47)
Sauté veal in olive oil in frying pan approximately 2 minutes each side. Remove crabmeat from can and layer over veal. Layer spinach over crabmeat. Bake for 5 minutes in preheated 350-degree oven. Remove, place in serving dish, spoon hollandaise sauce over top, and serve
After dinner, Tommy handed the hookers a roll of cash and sent them down to the hotel’s shopping arcade. He had business to discuss. I’ll never forget the conversation that followed.
“Listen, you ____in’ suitcase, there’s something I want to tell you,” he barked in that soft-spoken manner of his. “But you have to promise me that it doesn’t go any further than this room. Because if it does, it’ll make me look bad, and I’ll have a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Who would I tell?” I asked, throwing up my hands and cursing myself for not wearing the Nagra.
T.A.’s face turned serious. “Joey, I didn’t want to hurt you the way I did,” he said. “It wasn’t my fault. My compare, Joe Gallo, made me do it. It wasn’t me, or the money you owed me. He just used that as an excuse to get to you. I swear, Joey. It wasn’t me.”
I was stunned. “But why would Gallo want to hurt me? After all the money he made with us on the dope? On the racetrack scam? And what about the beating I gave that guy up in Naples because of his little ____ing bitch? The guy whose sister he was dating, the one who didn’t want him around?”
“Stop, Joey! Stop right there! I told you once before never to talk like that about my compare. Besides, that’s the reason. That guy you ____ed up, the zip with the sister. You ____ed him up too much. You wasn’t supposed to hurt him that bad. That girl, Sophia, she left my compare over that. It’s been eating at him ever since, and he blames you.”
I was flabbergasted. I’d been maimed, I’d almost been killed, I’d gone to work for the Feds, all because of Joe Gallo’s little bitch on the side! It couldn’t be. Tommy had to be lying.
After a long pause, T.A. continued. “What can I say, Joey? Except that my compare wanted you morto. It’s a good thing Don Ritz’s wife walked in or right now you’d either be dead, or with no right hand.”
“You should have shot me, Tommy,” I cried. It wasn’t an act. “You should have killed me. I didn’t deserve to be left like that. I’ve been nothing but loyal to you for over ten years. And look at me. I’m ____ed up! I look like a freak! I can’t even eat without cocking my head. I don’t even feel the liquor I’m drinking. I got a lump on my forehead the size of an orange. All this because Joe Gallo blames me for losing his little____? A man would have killed me, Tommy. A man wouldn’t have left me like this.”
For once Tommy Agro was speechless. He just stood there shrugging his shoulders. I wheeled and stalked out of the room. I didn’t feel like a hooker that night. Not even a Chinese one.
Main Lobster Fra Diavolo Lemon Granita
HALLANDALE, FLORIDA, 1983 TOMMY AGRO’S HOTEL CABANA
PEOPLE PRESENT:
Joe Dogs Tommy Agro Skinny Bobby DeSimone
Joey, I’m down here at the Dip. Bobby’s with me. Meet me by the pool. I got to see you about my compare’s thing.” T.A. sounded calm.
It had been two months since Tommy’d informed me that I’d nearly been beaten to death on orders from his compare, the Gambino family consigliere Joe N. Gallo. Ever since, I’d been burning with revenge to nail both of those bastards. Luckily, fortune struck. My Colombo famiglia pal Little Dom Cataldo had gone away on an armed-robbery beef, but before he went in he asked if I had any connections to get him an easy prison stretch at one of the federal country clubs. Dom had made the request because he knew my girlfriend Nena’s father was a big muckety-muck in Washington, D.C. But, instead, I’d taken Dom’s request to my new associates in the Eye, and they’d arranged for Little Dom to do his time at Allenwood Federal Penitentiary, the crème de la crème of soft time.
The Feds were hoping that Dom would spread the word throughout the mob that Joe Dogs could fix prison sentences, thereby enabling them to build a racketeering case against anyone who bit. Their plan worked like a charm. No sooner was Dom plunked down in Allenwood than the Colombos had me make similar arrangements for Carmine “the Snake” Persico, who wanted to serve his time close to New York. For $20,000, my “connection” would arrange it. And then Tommy Agro called me about Joe Gallo’s kid, who was doing hard time in Attica, a snake pit in upstate New York. Gallo wanted his son transferred to a softer pen, and, per the FBI’s instructions, I played along with the sting. This offshoot of Operation Home Run came to be known as the Favors case. There was only one problem. The Colombo organization had failed at first to come up with the scratch for the Snake, and the Feds, pissed off that no money had changed hands, had had Dom transferred to Kentucky, where he was doing hard time. I felt bad about that.
T.A. and Skinny Bobby were drinking coffee by the cabana when I arrived at the Diplomat Hotel. T.A. thou
ght I was pulling prison strings through Nena’s connection in Washington. His boss, Gallo, had arranged to get his kid transferred out of Attica for $20,000.
“Bobby’s got the money in the hotel safe,” Agro began. “Tell your friend in Washington we got the bread, but it stays right here until my compare’s kid is moved. Now, make us some lunch.”
Main Lobster Fra Diavolo
1/4 cup olive oil
3 Maine lobsters 11/4—11/2 pounds each, split in half and claws cracked
4 cloves garlic, crushed and sliced paper-thin with razor blade
1 (28-ounce) can Italian tomatoes (Progresso Pomodori Pelati con Basilico preferred), crushed
3 to 4 fresh basil leaves
Half (28-ounce) can fish stock (or water)
1 pound linguine
Heat olive oil in extra-large frying pan. Place split lobsters, cracked claws, and their juice in pan. Sauté for 5 minutes over medium heat, adding garlic as you turn lobsters. Add tomatoes, basil leaves, and fish stock (or water), cover, and simmer for approximately 12 minutes. Season to taste. Boil pasta (al dente is best), drain, and spoon lobster and sauce over individual servings. Goes best with a nice red chianti or burgundy. Serves 3.
T.A. ate lobster like he did everything else. Like a pig. The guy needed a half-dozen bibs. During dinner the Nagra was pressing against my balls and killing me. I’d taken to wearing the tape recorder in my crotch—as opposed to my chest or back, because no true wiseguy would ever grab your____. But after this conversation, I was glad I had it on.
“I feel so bad about Dominick,” I told Tommy. “He’s terrified of them big bad black guys in his cell block. And another thing, my connection in Washington is leery since he didn’t get the money yet for the Snake. We got to make sure we do the right thing on Gallo’s kid. Capisci?”