“Don’t you worry, Joey, didn’t I just tell you we got the money right here? You want to see it? You asking me to prove it to you?” I felt an Agro rampage coming on. “And another thing, my friend, if I was you, I wouldn’t be worrying so much about the health of your great good friend Dominick Cataldo. Maybe he ain’t as friendly as you think. Do you think I should tell him, Bobby?”
“Yeah, Tommy, I think you should tell him,” DeSimone squeaked.
“What? What?” I asked. “Tell me what?”
“Tell you that your good friend Little Dom put a contract out on you,” T.A. yelled. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. “Dom was taking credit for having the jailhouse juice. Then, when he got moved, it made him look bad with his famiglia. He wanted you dead. The guy Dom got to whack you came to my people for the okay, so we put a squash on it at a sit-down. So how do you feel about your good friend Little Dom Cataldo now?”
I was pretty shaken. But, truthfully, I also felt real good that the Nagra was rolling in my pants. It took me a minute to catch my breath. So Dom wanted me capped, huh? Well, ____Little Dominick Cataldo. ____him and the horse he rode in on. It was true. The Mafia has no friends, only interests. In that case I was going to enjoy my dessert.
Lemon Granita
1/2 cup sugar
2 cups water
6 to 7 lemons (enough for 1 cup of juice)
Make a syrup by mixing sugar and water in pot, bringing mixture to boil over medium flame, and boiling for 5 minutes. Turn off flame and allow syrup to reach room temperature. Mix with lemon juice and freeze in cups or pony glasses. (Note: the freezing process will take about an hour more than making ice because of the sugar content.) Serves 3.
Crabmeat Appetizers Steaks Cognac
CAPE CORAL, FLORIDA, 1983 AN FBI SAFE HOUSE
PEOPLE PRESENT:
Joe Dogs Larry Doss Dick Gentlecore (FBI agent) Roma Theus (Federal Prosecutor)
By August of 1983 it was all over. Operation Home Run had closed down. Word had leaked to the Mafia from several sources—including one from the FBI’s Washington headquarters—that someone in Florida was cooperating with the Eye. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out who that “someone” was. A third contract was put out on me. It was an “open” contract—anyone could collect. I don’t know how much it was for.
Right before we closed down I’d flown to New York for one last sitdown with Tommy Agro. We’d met at a bar near the airport. The agents hadn’t wanted me to go, but I insisted. Turned out to be a circus. The joint was crawling with mobsters and undercover Feds, who were very hard to pick out with their wingtips and white socks. Even Tommy had to laugh, after he’d had Fat Andy frisk me for a wire. I wasn’t wearing the Nagra that night. No matter. T.A. knew. They all knew. I think they’d planned to cap me right there. But there were just too many cops in the joint. Before I left, Tommy told me he’d get me, whatever it took. Reach up from the grave if he had to, he said. He wasn’t kidding.
So the Government moved me to a safe house in Cape Coral, at the ass end of the world. And the only thing I had to look forward to was waiting to testify at the trials of all my old friends and cooking for the Feds during our strategy sessions. I had plenty of time to experiment in the kitchen. On one rainy Saturday, I was visited by agents Larry Doss, Dick Gentlecore, and Federal Prosecutor Roma Theus, who would be prosecuting the first case. I decided to do up something extra special, just in case this was my last supper.
Crabmeat Appetizers
1/4 pound (1 stick) butter, softened
1 jar Kraft Old English cheese
11/2 teaspoons mayonnaise
1/2 teaspoon garlic salt
8 teaspoon Cavander’s (Greek seasoning)
8 ounces crabmeat
6 English muffins (12 halves, toasted)
Melt butter in pan. (Do not burn!) Stir in rest of ingredients (excluding muffins), being careful not to overmix and break up crabmeat too much. Spread mixture generously over English muffins and bake in preheated 350-degree oven approximately 5 to 8 minutes. Broil for a few seconds to brown tops, cut into quarters, and serve. Makes 48.
“Great crab puffs, they got a nice bite to them,” said Roma Theus, opening up his briefcase. “Now, Joe, here’s a list of all the shylock payments you made to Tommy A. during the investigation. You have to study them and try to remember them. Dates, places, and amounts. You’re going to be asked about them on the stand.”
I rolled my eyes at these guys. My brain ain’t built for that kind of thing.
“You can do it, Joe,” piped up Larry Doss. “Pay attention to Roma here. He’s the real deal. Graduate of Harvard, Phi Beta Kappa, number three in his class. He’s intelligent, Joe, and he’s going to help you.”
“Gee, Larry, that’s terrific, Roma being all those things,” I said. “But, hey, my father was a bookmaker, and you don’t hear me bragging about it.” Then I went into the kitchen to cook the steaks.
Steaks Cognac
4 filets mignons, 8 ounces each
3 tablespoons olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)
2 onions, chopped
8 large mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
1/2 cup beef stock
1/4 cup cognac (Rémy Martin preferred)
Salt and pepper to taste
Sauté steaks to desired doneness in olive oil. Remove from frying pan and set aside. Add onions and mushrooms to steak drippings (add a little more olive oil, if needed). Sauté until almost done, approximately 8 to 10 minutes, then add beef stock, cognac, and salt and pepper to taste. Ignite to cook off alcohol. Simmer until mixture is reduced to half. Reheat steaks in sauce and serve with vegetables and baked potato. ( Note: Asparagus Hollandaise, on page 47, also goes well with this dish.) Serves 4.
After dinner, Larry Doss made sure I had four or five scotches in me before he broke the news. I thought everybody was being just a little too nice.
“Joe, we got a problem,” the agent began. “Indictments were handed up in New York this week, and it looks like there was a leak. We went to pick up Fat Andy, but he hasn’t been home in days. His crew was scattered, too. It gets worse, Joe, and I know you’re not going to like this. Tommy Agro’s blown New York. He’s in the wind. And we have no idea where he’s hiding.”
Minestrone
PORT CHARLOTTE, FLORIDA, 1985 ANOTHER FBI SAFE HOUSE
PEOPLE PRESENT:
Joe Dogs Larry Doss Peter Outerbridge (Federal Prosecutor)
Agent Larry Doss flew through the door of the safe house just as I was convincing this little babydoll waitress I’d met the night before to come and visit me. Peter Outerbridge, a Federal Prosecutor, was right behind him.
“Break out the Dewar’s, Joe,” Doss cried. “We nailed Tommy Agro in Montreal. You have to see that dumb little midget. He grew a mustache and thought no one would recognize him. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police picked him up for us.”
“But how’d you get him back in the country?” I asked. “Ain’t there a lot of red tape about crossing borders?”
“Plenty,” said Doss. “Let’s just say we cut a few corners and he was walked over the bridge—and into our waiting arms—up in Niagara Falls. Peter here’s ready to bring him to trial.”
This was the best news I’d heard in a long time, and it called for a special feast. Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned on cooking. But there was enough stuff laying around the apartment for me to throw together a delicious minestrone
Minestrone
1/4 cup olive oil (extra-virgin or virgin preferred)
2 to 3 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped fine
1 onion, chopped fine
1/2 cup sliced mushrooms
4 cups finely chopped fresh tomatoes (or 1 16-ounce can crushed tomatoes with juice; or 1 6~ounce can tomato paste with 3 cups vegetable stock)
1/2 cup chopped Italian (flat-leaf) parsley
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon crushed dried oregano
2 teaspoons b
asil (preferably fresh, chopped)
1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary
1 cup precooked or canned beans (kidney, garbanzo, lima, pinto, or any combination of those. Note: garbanzo and kidney make a good combo!)
1/2 cup pasta (elbows, small shells, or broken spaghetti)
1 cup chopped celery
2 carrots, chopped
1 large potato, peeled and diced
1 green pepper, seeded and chopped
1 large zucchini, chopped
3/4 cup green beans
10 to 12 broccoli florets
1/4 cup fresh peas (or 1/2 package frozen peas)
1/4 cup fresh corn kernels (or 1/2 package frozen corn)
1 small bunch fresh escarole, chopped
PA quarts cooking water, approximately
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper to taste
Sauté garlic, onion, and mushrooms in oil until soft (add mushrooms last, as they cook quicker). Add tomatoes or tomato paste and stock, parsley and seasonings and simmer for approximately 30 minutes. Add beans and pasta, and continue simmering. In another pot, cook (or steam) chopped vegetables in 1/2 cup water until nearly done, approximately 5 to 7 minutes. Combine all vegetables, including cooking water, with soup. Add additional IM quarts cooking water. Add escarole 5 to 10 minutes before serving (escarole cooks very quickly and will reduce to a fraction of its original volume). Sprinkle each serving with Parmesan cheese. Serve with a good crusty bread and many Dewar’s if your chief antagonist on the face of the earth has just been arrested. Serves 8 or more.
Between 1982 and 1991 I testified in twelve trials in Florida and New York, putting away many of the guys I worked with in the Mafia. It was Tommy Agro s turn to come to court in Florida in 1986 on charges of loansharking, extortion, and attempted murder, and the judge kept yelling at me for smiling at him throughout the whole trial. T.A. was sentenced to fifteen years, but he was let out early to go home and die of lung cancer, which he did, in June of ’87. As for the other guys who accompanied T.A. to my beating, Paulie Principe was acquitted by the jury and Frank Russo was indicted but never arrested.
Since then, I have been asked by several people, mostly Feds, if, knowing what I know now, I’d ever do it again. It’s a tough question. Some nights, after sitting in that witness stand putting my old pals away, I went back to my room and cried. It was never my intention to break everybody, to ____ everything up.
I only wanted revenge. Revenge on T.A. and, later, on his compare Joe N. Gallo. Well, I got my revenge. Gallo was sentenced to ten years. T.A. died. And now I’m stuck in the Witness Protection Program, being taken to dinner out in the middle of wahoo land by U.S. Marshals in joints that advertise “Italian Night” and then serve ____ing macaroni and ketchup instead of pasta. I guess it serves me right. Capisci?
Cooking on the Lam
Introduction
Recipes
TOMATO SAUCE
STUFFED MUSHROOMS
SHRIMP SCAMPI GOURMET-STYLE
MARINATED ASPARAGUS WRAPPED WITH PROSCIUTTO
CHICKEN CORDON BLEU
VEAL PICCATA
SHRIMP CREOLE
SEMIFREDDO (ITALIAN ICE)
SWEET PEACHES WITH CREAMY ZABAGLIONE TOPPED WITH CRUSHED AMARETTI (ALMOND COOKIES)
CLASSIC MEAT LASAGNA
MEATBALLS
SICILIAN CAPONATA
CLAMS CASINO
PIZZAIOLA SAUCE
RISOTTO MILANESE
SIMPLE FRIED CHICKEN
CHEESECAKE
SHRIMP ALLA PIZZAIOLA
BAKED STUFFED CLAMS
SAUERBRATEN WITH POTATO DUMPLINGS AND RED CABBAGE AND APPLES
BEARNAISE SAUCE
VEAL CHOPS MILANESE
SPAGHETTI WITH GARLIC AND OLIVE OIL
CORNED BEEF AND CABBAGE
FAGIOLI WITH FRESH SAGE
GERMAN POTATO SALAD
CAROL’S CHOCOLATE CAKE
RED SNAPPER EN PAPILLOTE
LINGUINE WITH WHITE CLAM SAUCE
CHILI CON CARNE
CREAM PUFFS
BLUE CHEESE DRESSING
CHICKEN IL FORMAGGIO
PASTA WITH ZUCCHINI
LOBSTER THERMIDOR
AMISH FRIENDSHIP CAKE
Introduction
I’m still cooking, because I like to cook! No longer for the Mob, though. But who cares? The attorney general says that cooking for the Mob could be hazardous to my health, anyway. I got most of my old pals off the street and put them in the slammer. They were very pissed off at me. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor. I guess they can’t take a joke. So I took my cooking attributes on the road with me and cooked for some quite well-to-do, classy people—including some very pretty ladies.
In my escapades throughout this period of my life, I was tracked down by the Mob and they almost ended my cooking career—not to mention my life. It was close, but once again; they missed. I must be a cat. They do have nine lives, don’t they? I wonder how many I have left. It’s starting to look like I’m going to die of old age. Hopefully, anyway.
I kinda miss my old friends though, especially T.A. He would say to me, “Hey, Joey. “Make somethin’ for us to eat.”
“Whaddaya want me to cook?” I’d ask.
“Make that whaddaya-call-it—ya know, that dish where you told me that guys from the north part of Italy stole that rare pig from the Japanese and they put it together with another pig and they, you know, had more pigs, or whatever! The pig with the peaches or pineapples or some kinda f____ kin’ fruit that youse put on it.”
“You mean Mandarin Pork Roast?” I said with a chuckle. “And it was stolen by the Italians from China, not Japan.”
Me being one step up from the least mentally challenged of this bunch of guys, I used to tell them all kinds of stories to make them think they were eating something from the old country. Once they tasted it, they believed me, because, with the entrée, I’d give them a small bowl of extra-virgin olive oil and some crusty Italian bread for dipping.
The toughest time I ever had with the guys was convincing them that Lobster Thermidor was a Sicilian dish. The story I told them was that a live Maine lobster left Maine on a cold March day and headed out to sea. It swam and crawled across oceans and continents until it fell, exhausted, in Palermo, Sicily, on the last of May. The lobster was found by an old Sicilian woman who brought it home and put the poor crustacean in a barrel of cold seawater, where it began to spawn, and the lobsters multiplied. I told them mental giants that that’s how we obtained Memorial Day. One of the guys said, “Jeez! Joey, It’s a good thing the lobster didn’t fly. We wouldn’t have that holiday if she did!”
“Go figure,” I said quietly to myself.
I had a lot of fun cooking for this group. But, hey! Come on, now! At least I sent ’em to the can nice and fat! Capisci? But, to be candid, they didn’t really believe the lobster story—some of them didn’t, anyway—but they did know that it was a Sicilian dish, because whenever I cooked this culinary delight, I’d serve a small bowl of tomato sauce to the side of the Thermidor.
After I was almost finished testifying at the Mafia trials, I went out on the road and traveled a lot. I had to, so I could stay at least one step ahead of the Mob. Here, I was, being an honest guy trying to grind out a living, and these guys were trying to whack me. Well, I was almost honest, anyway. I just did a couple of extortions and other minor things, nothing much to speak of. Hey, I had to live, didn’t I? I also met a lot of nice people as I moved around and cooked for most of them as a way of selling myself to them for friendship. Four or five times a year I hired out to cook for small parties. I’d make them a meal to die for, then wind up being the entertainment for the evening.
Here’s how it went. I’d be flown into whatever city it was in and be the only person there who knew who I really was, except for the proprietors of the house or the people who were giving the gig. These well-to-do people would be multimillionaires, so
you can imagine the beautiful homes they had. They were doctors and lawyers and the like—all professional guys with lovely wives in the thirty- and forty-ish age groups.
I would be in their kitchen preparing hors d’oeuvres and the entrée, and the guests would arrive. They’d begin having cocktails and eating the hors d’oeuvres. The host would slip an A&E Network tape of me and John Gotti on American Justice, into the VCR and the diners would watch it, not knowing that it was me in the kitchen. Just as the tape was winding down to its conclusion, I would walk into the room wearing my chef’s uniform and hat and say something like, “Hey, folks. How do youse like the food so far?”
Heads would turn upon hearing a Brooklyn accent, and they’d all say, “Hey, it’s him! It’s ‘Joe Dogs’!” They’d start giggling, and some of the ladies would grab their purses, like I was going to steal ’em or something. They loved it, and to be honest, so did I. I’d spend hours answering their questions and telling stories, and I was always paid very handsomely for my culinary efforts.
One party I cooked for stands out in my mind. The host was a prominent criminal lawyer and had his own big firm. The guests consisted of two circuit court judges, a criminal justice judge, and the attorney general of that state. We went through the same ritual as at all the other parties. Then, as they were eating their dessert, which was Zabaglione, the wife of one of the judges asked for my recipe for Blue Cheese Dressing. I told her that I’d gladly mail her the recipes for the whole dinner if she’d give me an address to send them to. The judge’s wife said she would prefer that I e-mail them to her. The judge in turn said, “Maybe Joe doesn’t know how to operate a computer for e-mail, so don’t embarrass him.”
The Mafia Cookbook Page 8