Let me preface this story with a mental image: I am 5’3″ and about 150 pounds, but I’m about 20 pounds overweight. I am not impressive.
When I was 20, my boyfriend and roommate and I took a road trip to Chicago. On our first night there, we ate at an awesome Italian restaurant just around the corner from our hotel.
Our last night there, I decided I wanted to eat there again before we left. My travel companions were amenable, so off we went.
It was a three story restaurant, breakfast in the basement, lunch on the ground floor, dinner on the second. I double-checked the schedule before we went in, making sure we were headed to the right floor for the time of day. Up to second we went, tummies rumbling and excited for al dente pasta in beautiful rich sauce.
In the vestibule, we found the maitre de and two large men in suits, the maitre de ringing his hands. When he saw us, his eyes got very big.
“Table for three,” I said. “Is there a wait?”
“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” he said quickly, and politely aimed a hand back down the stairs.
“Oh, okay, thanks anyway,” my boyfriend said, much to my surprise.
I shot him an incredulous look.
“But your sign says you’re open,” I said. I glanced into the dining room and saw two men sitting at a table towards the back. No one else. That seemed odd for supper time, but there were, in fact, customers seated in the dining room.
One of the large men stepped around the maitre de, who seemed even more nervous now. His suit was very nice and he was roughly the size of a Shire draft horse, his head shaved and his nose squashed flat.
“We’re closed,” he said.
“That’s fine,” my boyfriend said, and grabbed my hand. Our roommate was already down the first few stairs.
I shook my boyfriend off and squared up with the big guy. “Why does your sign say you’re open?” I demanded. “That’s very confusing.”
“We’re closed,” the huge guy with the squashed nose repeated, and gave a weird smile at my boyfriend, who was still grabbing at me.
I did not understand what the hell was going on, but the big guy was not going to let us eat there and my boyfriend was going to drag me down the stairs.
“Well,” I said, still confused and very reluctant, “can you recommend a good place nearby we can eat?”
The big guy warmed up instantly, a friendly smile gracing his meaty face. “Sure, go down two blocks and take a left, there’s a great diner on the right, they’ll take good care of you.”
“Thank you,” I said. The maitre de looked like he might faint, and the other big guy smirked.
“Thank you,” my boyfriend echoed, and practically dragged me out by my jacket.
I shook him off once we got outside. “What the fuck? What was that?”
Now my roommate and my boyfriend both looked like THEY might faint.
“Other than you trying to get us killed?” my boyfriend demanded.
“What?”
“Mel, you didn’t pick up on that?” our roommate said.
“Pick up on what?”
“Those guys were mafia!” my boyfriend said. “Oh, my god, I thought that guy was gonna kill you! Let’s go!”
“‘Your sign says you’re open,'” our roommate imitated.
“You guys think they were mafia? Really?”
Both my boyfriend and roommate nodded emphatically.
“What, really?”
“Yes!”
I turned and looked back at the building. “But . . . ”
“Let’s GO!” my boyfriend repeated and started hustling me down the street.
Suddenly, the entire scene clicked into place, and the light dawned. Italian restaurant. Chicago. Two guys at a table, no one else in the place. Two giant dudes in suits. The squashed nose on the one. The maitre de looking pale and nervous. “Oh,” I said, and let myself be hustled. “Ooooooooh.”
“Yes, oh!” my boyfriend said.
“Oh. Oh, shit.”
“Yes!”
We did end up going to the diner the big guy recommended. It was, in fact, very good, although it was not al dente pasta in rich sauce. We were still impressed.
So that’s my story of how I tried to take on the mafia.
I like to think the one big guy remembers me as the cute little dingbat tourist who didn’t know what the hell was good for her. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t had anyone question him or stand up to him — you know, like, EVER.
I like to think we both got a funny story out of the deal.
