Goodfella’s Feast

In search of the best Italian cooking according to the underworld

Preferring his sfogliatella served warm with a cup of espresso and a twist of lemon, John Gotti’s visits to the pastry shop where I worked often included a few special requests. At the time, I merely assumed he was either a local business man with a particularly discriminating palate, or a well dressed Italian eccentric of some kind — but not necessarily of the gangster kind.

My memories of the Dapper Don were limited to a dozen or so interactions where he and his associates conducted their business at a table in the back of the shop as discretely as you might imagine a group of mobsters would. People came in, sat with them, talked awhile, and then left. Laughter often followed what I speculated were jokes about people they knew, but given my embryonic knowledge of Italian, I could never be sure. The conversations they had about food, however, I understood much better and I shamelessly eavesdropped on them whenever they talked about their favorite dishes and the restaurants that served them.

Embarking on what I now call my Goodfellas Tour, I traveled the boroughs of New York City in search of the best Italian cooking according to the underworld. Adventurous by nature when it comes to food, I thought it might be one of those memorable New York experiences I’d look back on with either affection, or surprise. Or both. So, with a subway map in hand, I began my foodie excursion by taking the A train up to The Bronx to sample La Bottega da Nello’s Arancini Margherita.

For those of you not familiar with this dish, think of a plump rice ball made with white wine risotto and a gooey mozzarella center, breaded and deep fried. For those of you not familiar with dining in a restaurant patronized by a very specific kind of clientele, imagine walking into a place with it’s own set of social customs and you were the only one in the room who didn’t know what they were. This became fairly clear to me when Beppo, the elderly gentleman who greeted me at the door, seemed to regard my request for a table in the same way a bookie might consider the spectacle of a prancing unicorn suddenly showing up at the race track.

Much later, I pieced together that their reaction had less to do with my not being from the neighborhood and more to do with a strongly held Italian belief that meals were social occasions and eating alone was to be avoided at all costs. Thus, with a shrug of the shoulders at my aloneness, Beppo led me to a small table by the bar, gave me a menu, and closely watched me in case I might change my mind.

Next up was Marcello — my very chatty waiter who afforded me the pleasure of his company by giving me an introduction to the meals he would serve in his yet to be realized restaurant while I waited to order food from the restaurant that was already a reality.

Preliminaries concluded, Marcello treated me to a complimentary glass of wine and then asked me why I was eating alone. Italians are nothing if not straight to the point. Debating whether or not to tell him the truth, I decided instead to paint a fairly pedestrian version of how I had discovered their restaurant and one that visibly disappointed my listeners (including those sitting at the bar who were craning their necks to hear what I was saying). Nonetheless, it acheived it’s ultimate goal and Marcello finally took my order and then served me one of the best meals I had eaten since arriving in New York.

Imagine, if you will, orange sized risotto balls filled with a homemade tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, and deep fried to perfection. Served with fried capers for a briny intensity that contrasted beautifully with the richness of the cheese along with a punchy arrabbiata sauce for dunking, I practically drooled my way through what was an edible masterpiece.

Encouraged by my eating experience at La Bottega da Nello, I ventured to Brooklyn the following week to sample Osteria Brincello’s Risotto alla Pescatore; followed by a visit to Il Caminetto on the Lower East Side to savor Palermo’s classic Bucatini con le Sarde. As each culinary adventure unfolded, I filled my journal with the savory details of every meal and the conversations that inevitably went along with dining out when you are young, single, and eating alone.

Among the many memories I have, there was one restaurant, and one meal in particular, that tops the list: Trattoria Simoni and their sublime Ravioli ai Funghi. A beautifully handmade pasta stuffed with portobello mushrooms and mascarpone cheese, these epicurean delights were then delicately placed on a glistening pool of creamy rosemary garlic sauce and topped with a shaving of truffles. A meal I can say with longing was as close to sex on a fork as you can get.

Trattoria Simoni was a family owned restaurant situated in Williamsburg, New York, decades before Williamsburg was trendy, and run by the husband and wife team of Sofia and Luciano Simoni. A non-descript exterior as restaurants go and located in a residential area, you could easily pass right by it and not know what gastronomic pleasures were hidden inside.

As you breached the door you were greeted by Luciano who was usually standing behind a dark oak bar. The smell of roasted meats and garlic teased your senses as you were led inside the warm glow of a dining room decorated with pink linen tablecloths and candle lit tables.

Their chef was a distant cousin from Liguria but Sofia was the person who still made all of the pasta. Luciano, for his part, took care of his customers by placing a bottle of wine on your table, pouring you a glass and then gesturing for you to drink it. Modeled after the Italian custom of only charging you for what you drink, it was difficult to refuse his bonhomous suggestion.

My frequent trips back to Trattoria Simoni awarded me the honor of having Sofia greet me in the dining room and then bluntly ask me “Perche mangiare da sola?” Why are you eating alone? This was quickly remedied by seating me with other family members so that we could “mangiare insieme”. Often times Sofia paired me with visitors from Italy who spoke very little English. Conversations being limited by my vocabulary skills, any subject apart from the basic introductory chit chat and I instantly became the village idiot. This was never more acutely felt then when I found myself describing the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday as the one where “I eat a turkey I never met who took a bath in my kitchen”. Or during one very convoluted back and forth, along with a lot of chianti, where I may have told Sofia’s befuddled cousins that I was a taxidermist who had an extensive collection of bats. Or something equally absurd.

Occasionally, the chianti would find it’s way into Luciano’s glass and put him in the mood to sit down with the customers to enjoy a bit of “chiacchierare”. More often than not this would amiably go unmentioned by Sofia, but every now and then she’d drop a comment under her breath and then the both of them would entertain us with a mixture of good natured banter and an ongoing argument over the division of labor that either ended up with Luciano patting Sofia on the behind, or with Sofia making colorful barbs on the character of men. In either case, it was always a rich resource of new Italian vocabulary words.

While my Goodfellas Tour only ran the course of a few months before I changed jobs, it introduced me to the culinary joys of Italian cooking that I have enjoyed most of my life. As to the practice of dangling eyeballs and the likes of Signore Gotti, the closest I personally came to anything that eye popping was when John Gotti asked me if I wanted to sit on his lap.

Yikes!