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  THE CASE OF THE UPPER CRUST

  More than just crust can be blown sky high.

  The noise coming from the doorman at Dino’s Ristorante Italiano was a cross between a punch in the gut and the air slowly leaving a slashed car tire. Not that I would know firsthand. My friend smiled, taking the doorman’s slack jaw and senseless stuttering as a referendum on her good looks and charming personality. While I generally agreed with such assessments, I had a feeling that the doorman’s hesitation was due less to my captivating dinner guest’s considerable charms and more to the fact that I had shown my persona in a place where I was considered mucho non grata. Muscling my way past the gaping jaws of the mute doorman, I opened the glass and mahogany door and escorted my guest inside.

  It was still very early in the evening, well before the joint picked up a full head of steam, and there were only about a half-dozen souls in the place. The stiffs were busy making nice with each other, stuffing their faces, clinking their glasses, and chirping like well-fed birds. My companion and I made our way to the hat check girl. I removed my trench coat and she her stole, and we handed them forth. The girl, a red-headed gum chewer who I had seen the last time I was here, froze in mid-chew, her Juicy Fruit threatening to go overboard.

  “It’ll go stale that way,” I said, using a couple of fingers to push the girl’s yap shut. She remained still, but you could hear a gulping sound across the restaurant. The girl turned out to be solid after all, and rallied the troops enough to take our garments and stow them in the back, wherever overcoats go to sleep. My friend and I turned and walked towards the dining area, only to be stopped on the one yard line by a swarthy man-mountain in an industrial strength tuxedo.

  “Youse aren’t welcome here,” said the monolith, a dark haired, mustached slab whose eyebrows met in the center of his forehead and embraced like old prep school chums.

  “If I only went to places in town where I was welcome,” I said, elbowing past the Cyclops on my way towards procuring a window table for my lovely companion and myself, “I would never go anywhere.”

  The man-mountain continued to stare, arms crossed over his chest and a look in his eye designed to instill terror in those who stood beneath his towering gaze. In my line of work, I had been intimidated by the best, so I held out a chair for my guest and took a seat for myself. The goon continued to stare us down, his eyebrows rising and falling with every breath, so I asked him for the wine list. He continued his stare until it dawned on him that his gaze was less-than-wilting, and he regained his ability to speak.

  “Youse aren’t welcome here,” he repeated, the record apparently having a skip in that particular groove.

  “We’ll need to see a menu, of course,” I told the troglodyte, “but go ahead and start us off with whatever passes for Chianti Classico in this joint.”

  A confused look passed over the big man’s face, as if he were trying to divide one-thousand and eighty-three by fourteen. I imagine that he was debating whether or not he should throw us out on our keisters or if the rules had changed when he wasn’t looking. Evidently uncertainty was on our side and the giant disappeared, reappearing moments later with a pair of glasses and a small jug of wine. He sat the glasses down and began to pour, only to freeze as an ear-splitting voice cut through the dining room.

  “Luigi!” boomed the voice, causing the giant to snap the bottle upwards, a few stray drops of wine staining his lapel. The diners also stopped their revelry and turned their gaze to the kitchen, from where the voice issued. A man in a chef’s toque and a white apron stood, butcher’s knife in hand, glaring at my table. I took advantage of the lull to relieve the giant of his bottle and topped off our glasses.

  The chef continued to stare until it dawned on him that he held the attention of every paying patron in the place. The sneer that decorated his face slowly and uncomfortably twisted into a clenched smile, one that bore only the faintest family resemblance to sincerity.

  “Please, everyone, please! Eat! Drink! Be merry!” The chef lowered his knife as he walked towards our table, his free hand waving to regulars and greeting them, but his eyes never leaving us.

  “Luigi,” hissed the chef through his gritted teeth. “Get them the hell out of here!” Luigi snapped himself out of his stupor and put a firm hand on my shoulder, readying himself to make me his improvisational shot put. I countered his move with one of my own, shooting my hand into the left breast pocket of my jacket.

  “Careful,” I warned the two men. “You wouldn’t want me to put a hole in my coat in the middle of your dining room, would you?”

  Uncertainty washed over the big man, and he turned to the small chef for guidance. The chef’s face flushed under the toque, and he gave a quick nod towards his large subordinate. Luigi took the cue, and his hand flew away from me as if I was the business end of an oscillating fan. I counted myself lucky that neither of them called my bluff, seeing as how I didn’t have anything more lethal than old breath mints in my jacket. The chef’s pinched smile held, and with a nod he sent the giant on his way, leaving the three of us at the table. With only two glasses between us, the cook was going to have to be the odd man out.

  “What are you doing here?” hissed the chef, taking a seat and leaning forward conspiratorially. “You are no longer welcome here!”

  “You told me that this was one of your favorite restaurants,” teased my charming companion, sipping the Chianti through a smile.

  “It is!” I protested. “Marco, tell the lady how much I love the menu here.”

  Marco shook his head at me and appeared to be on the verge of tears. Marco was the chef and owner of Dino’s, the restaurant he had inherited from his father, who was named Gabe. As far as I could tell, the restaurant never even had a busboy named Dino let alone an owner.

  “You promised me that you would never again come back here,” whispered Marco, his eyes darting from table to table trying to identify the source of the icy shivers that made their way up his spine. Like any Ristorante worth its pasta, it was Saturday evening, and the place was filling up faster than a crooked charity Santa’s pockets during the holiday shopping season. “You promised!”

  “I did no such thing!” I corrected the sad little chef. “You made that assumption after you had me thrown out the last time I was here.”

  “Why would anyone do such a thing?” cooed my companion.

  “Because,” hissed the diminutive chef, “the last time he was here, three of my customers died.”

  “That’s less than the time before that” I added to my friend. “Now that time was an event!”

  Marco attempted speech, but the only thing that escaped him was a slight gurgling sound. Shifting his pleading gaze away from my less-than-sympathetic visage, he turned a desperate eye to my dinner guest, silently attempting to convince her to either charm me from his restaurant, or preferably, to bash me with the bottle of cheap Chianti on the table. I imagine that there was a small moment of hope when she picked up the bottle of wine.

  “This is actually a quite decent bottle of Classico,” my guest told him, eliciting yet another gurgle from the cook.

  “This is the best pizza in the entire city,” I told my friend. She waved a glass in Marco’s direction in salute.

  “Not true!” the chef protested. “Philippe’s is better by far!”

  “Nonsense,” I corrected him. “Philippe’s is strictly second fiddle to yours, my dear Marco.” I looked back at my friend. “Marco does this thing with the crust that gives it a slight nutty flavor. Brilliance! Sheer Brilliance!”

  “I can hardly wait,” my companion said, shooting the chef a smile that would kill lesser mortals.

  “Please,” Marco beseeched us. “When you come here, it’s only a matter of time till someone gets killed! I would prefer that it were not me!”

  I took a sip of the Chianti and waited, watching the chef contort like a Wallenda. After a long ten count, I lowered my glass and looked the little man squarely in his beady little
eyes.

  “You know what I want,” I said. He was shaking his head before I even finished my sentence.

  “Forget it,” he shot back at me. “I will never surrender that information to you!”

  “In that case,” I told Marco, picking up the small jug of wine and refilling my glass. “My friend and I will be forced to make dining here a habit.” We raised our glasses and clicked them together. “What are your plans for tomorrow night?”

  “Why I believe I am free,” she answered, taking a lady-like slug of Chianti to seal the deal.

  “Enough!” screamed Marco. He jumped from the table and stormed over to the bar where he grabbed a pad of paper from Luigi, who was busy pretending to stand upright. He picked up a pencil and scribbled furiously on the paper before tearing off the sheet and marching back to our table.

  “Here!” Marco said, taking my hand and thrusting the wadded up paper into it. “Take this and may the devil take you as well! Now, a deal is a deal! Leave and never, ever return!”

  I took a look at the paper and saw that it indeed held my prize. Folding the document carefully, I placed it into my breast pocket next to the breath mints, and stood up, pulling the chair out for my guest.

  “Let’s blow,” I told her. “A deal is a deal.”

  “And what about diner?” she asked.

  “Well,” I said, taking her by the arm and leading her out amid the cowering glances of the wait staff. “I guess it’s leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes for us.”

  She sighed as we walked out the door and hailed a cab. I was fortunate. My companion had sampled my meatloaf and decided to come with me. I opened the cab door and we got in. She leaned over and whispered into my ear.

  “What’s on the paper?”

  “It’s Marco’s recipe for pizza dough,” I told her. “The recipe’s been in the family for generations. At one time, the younger generation had to pay for the recipe in blood.”

  “Seriously?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “No, not about the blood thing,” she dismissed. “You really brought me all the way down here for a recipe?”

  I was about to tell her that a family recipe was better than gold. It was like magic. If you had one as good as Marco’s, you never, ever let the audience see what was behind the curtain. You simply let them experience the magic and take your bow. I could have offered Marco money for the recipe, but he never would have gone for it. That crust was the stuff that dreams were made of, so in order to get a slice I had to apply what leverage I had. I would have told her all that, but she cut me off.

  “Why don’t we go to your place and you can whip up some pizza for us?”

  It didn’t work that way. In order for the magic trick to work right, you had to set it up. Like all the good things in life, anticipation was the key.

  The cab pulled away and all conversation died as a giant blast erupted, tearing through the night and sending the cab spinning out of control. A hail of glass and pebbles rained down on the auto, and it skidded to a stop on the curb across the street from Dino’s Ristorante Italiano.

  Or what used to be Dino’s Ristorante Italiano.

  “What was that?” my lady friend gasped. She struggled to right herself in back as the cabbie shook off the effects of the blast.

  “From the sound of it, I’d say about eight sticks of dynamite.” I pinched my nose and blew, trying in vain to chase away the ringing in my ears. Whoever put the dynamite in Dino’s was a rookie. It was an old building. Eight sticks were probably overkill. So to speak.

  “Marco was right,” gasped my friend. “People do die around you.”

  “Nonsense,” I told her. “People die because there is a certain subspecies that do things like lie, cheat, bomb buildings and shoot their fellow human beings. They are the reason that things fall over and people die. I’m just the guy who is trying to make some pizza.”

  I told the cabbie to take us to my apartment, but my companion begged off, mumbling something about self-preservation as she did. I sighed and took notice of the dark plume of smoke coming from the ruins behind us. I had my prize, but a good crust was only part of the magic trick. It seemed if I wanted the whole act, I’d have to come up with a sauce recipe of my own.

  MARCO’S MAGIC PIZZA CRUST

  2 ½ cups whole flour (separated)

  1 cup lukewarm water

  2 ¼ teaspoons instant yeast

  1 teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons olive oil

  Take a small bowl and knock out about a half cup of the flour, the water, and the yeast. Mix it around until it looks like yeast soup and cover with plastic wrap. Put it aside for about ten minutes or so, or approximately two or three chapters of a Mickey Spillane novel.

  When you get back to the soup, things should be happening. The yeast should be hard at work making a wet, spongy mass. In a mixing bowl, pour in the remaining flour and mix the salt into the flour. Pour in your yeast soup and top it off with the olive oil. Mix it all up until it is well incorporated, and then dump the whole caboodle onto a well-floured surface and give it the third degree.

  Don’t be too gentle with the mess. Knead the dough until it takes on a smooth consistency, just the opposite of what you would look like under similar circumstances. Cover the larger bowl with plastic wrap and let it live in your refrigerator for a day or two.

  That’s right. A day or two.

  The next day (or so) pull out the dough a couple of hours before you use it. It should be fatter than a bookie’s wallet after the Derby. Give it an hour or so to come to room temperature, and then punch the sucker in the mug. This lets out the gasses the yeast creates and gives you a satisfied feeling deep down in what passes for your soul. Preheat the oven for about an hour at 450 degrees F, and if you have a pizza stone, well la-de-da.

  On a floured surface, stretch or roll the dough out to a thin, circular size, about sixteen inches in diameter, or whatever will fit on your pizza stone or cookie sheet. If you are using a pizza stone, put the crust on a peel that has been liberally dusted with cornmeal. If you are putting the dough on a cookie sheet, for the love of Pete please put some parchment paper down or something. After all, are we not civilized?

  Top the crust with your favorite sauce, a goodly amount of cheese, and whatever toppings tickle your fancy. Paint what’s left of the crust (the mythical Cornicione) with a little of the left over sauce. Gently place your creation into the oven for ten minutes, and remove carefully.

  When your pie is out, let it rest for ten minutes and enjoy. Now, you might be tempted to cut down on some of the wait time on the first part of the recipe. Don’t do it! Remember, men have died for this.

  THE CASE OF THE UNHAPPY CHICKPEA

  When life deals you falafels, make a pita.

  In my line of work, it helps if you can keep your eyes open and your ear to the ground, or something like that. You make friends, or what passes for friends, with everyone from mob men to choir boys, hoping that they’ll feed you whatever scraps of info you need to get by. I do my best to keep ahead of the comings and the goings around this burg, hoping that when things break my way it results in a payday. The first rule of business is that if you stand in line waiting for clients to come to you, more often than not you go hungry. Today I was in pursuit of both knowledge and lunch, and Lady Luck was my dining partner.

  “The McDermott’s were in court this morning,” Manny told me as he handed me a steaming hot falafel pita wrapped up in yesterday’s newsprint. Manny runs the falafel wagon outside of the city courthouse, and was as permanent a fixture there as a hotdog cart at a Saturday baseball game or a gang boss at Sunday service. Everyone from Superior Court Justices to the court stenographers made at least one meal a week from Manny’s cart, and because of that Manny was a fixture at the court. He knew every case that was open in every courtroom in the building, and every Joe that set foot inside. Manny was so much an everyday part of courthouse life that the only way you would notice him would be when he wasn’t there.
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  Manny was never not there.

  “The McDermotts,” I mumbled through a mouthful of deep-fried heaven. Manny, to his credit, was fluent in the language of gluttony and had no problem keeping up. “I hear that they’re pretty big money.”

  “The biggest,” Manny said, handing me a much needed napkin. I took it because I figured I would end up wearing more of the falafel than eating it, and noticed that Manny kept his hand stretched out. Forgetting to collect payment for a sandwich is not how a guy like Manny kept his spot front-and-center at the courthouse since Moses was in diapers. I fished into my anemic-looking wallet and handed the street gourmand a sawbuck. He slipped the dirty, wrinkled bill into his pocket and didn’t bother coming back to me with any change.

  I first made the cook’s acquaintance about a dozen years ago or so. He had already been at his spot long enough to attract dust, but a new operator in the area had tried to squeeze Manny for protection. When you make a steady paycheck in this burg, there’s always a new operator who wants a taste. Manny employed yours truly to have a small chat with said operator, and I came out on top. In return, Manny kept me in falafels and hummus for a whole year, but the meter had expired on our arrangement long ago. I took his the absence of change on his part to mean that he had a tip, rather than assume he now served the most expensive sandwiches on the planet.

  “All right,” I said as I fished around for another napkin to help eradicate the evidence of a deep fried lunch from my trench coat. “Spill!”

  “The McDermotts are in the middle of a particularly ugly divorce,” Manny said, dicing an onion as he spoke. “They’re pointing fingers at each other, accusing the other of sleeping around.”

  “That’s how they play the game, isn’t it?” I asked, still wiping my fingers. Manny was a master of oil, hot sauce, and tahini, and while his cart might not be much to look at, what he did there was so good it should have been illegal in most states. “Each side tells the judge that the other side done them wrong, they slide hizhonor a fat envelope, and the fattest envelope wins.”