My Time with the Mob

I don’t really know very much about the Mob with a capital M. My philosophy is that the less you know about the Mob the better. I still haven’t seen every episode of The Sopranos.

However, unlike Justice Potter who remarked about obscenity—“I know it when I see it”—I, apparently, don’t know the Mob when I see it. At least I didn’t back in the 80s and 90s an era of New York Mob superstars: Carlo Gambini, Paul Castellano and John Gotti. They were all over the news even after death. I’d seen the stories but really hadn’t paid any attention. As for the New Jersey mob? I knew it existed but wouldn’t recognize a name or a face if I walked onto a room full of Jersey mobsters. 

Which brings me to . . . 

Late one Sunday afternoon a couple of friends and I arrived in a northern New Jersey town too early to show up at a party. Eating was always a good way to kill time. Starbucks was not yet an option in New Jersey so we looked around for a restaurant. Pre-Internet that meant driving around searching for one. Let’s call the one we found Ristorante Italiano because it’s generic and that was not its name.

In retrospect, the first sign that the place we selected was unusual? We could not even get a glimpse of the interior. The windows were covered and if the door had a window it was small, placed high and filled with tinted glass. The details are gone from my memory but the general impression is clear. We had no idea what we were walking into.

As we stepped through the entrance, everyone, and I do mean everyone, in the restaurant turned to look at us. They continued to watch as a very pleasant maitre d’ rushed forward not so much to greet us as to stop us. It was a small place with a dozen tables or so and we could see that just about all of them were occupied. So, we didn’t question him when he said they were full. Maybe we looked as if we were starving, harmless and clueless. We weren’t really starving but his other two assessments were dead on. He relented and told us the owner wasn’t there that evening. We could sit at his table. 

He led us past the other diners to a round table at the rear of the restaurant not far from the door to the kitchen. Not a traditionally good table but ideally situated for a quick getaway should an undesirable type such as a law officer with a warrant or a mob enforcer with a gun come through the front door. 

We may have noticed the clientele was predominantly Italian but if we did we would have seen that as a positive. Where better to eat Italian food than at a place where well-heeled Italians ate?

The table was too big for a party of three but we settled around one side of the table that we were lucky to get. The food was delicious and the conversation, lively. We laughed a lot—about what I have no idea. I don’t recall if we ever questioned the professional affiliations of the other diners but if we did we knew enough not to laugh about that.

After a great meal, we moved on to the party that had brought us to town. Except for the red sauce (or gravy if you prefer), we didn’t think much about the experience.

Until . . . 

Within weeks or maybe months of our visit to Ristorante Italiano, the New York Times noted that several high-ranking members of the leading New Jersey crime family had been arrested. Where did the feds get the evidence for the indictments? Wiretaps especially the one that had been in place for many months at the owner’s table at the Ristorante Italiano.

My friends and I were not included in the indictments. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly