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" There was a seat at the bar. The restaurant, on Ninth Avenue in midtown, was crowded, but at the bar a stool stood like an empty island against a sea of men who were all standing and talking to one another. They were all elaborately dressed, even bejeweled, in sharp shirts and two-tone shirts and cuff links, and as soon as I saw them, I asked the restaurant&amp;#039;s hostess two questions: One, if I could eat at the restaurant dressed as I was, in jeans and a T-shirt. And two, if I could just go to the bar and take the empty seat. &amp;quot;Well, you can,&amp;quot; she said, &amp;quot;as soon as those men leave.&amp;quot; She was very young and chirpy, and spoke to me with a mixture of enthusiasm and pity that made me feel as though I had asked my question in broken English. &amp;quot;But their table is ready, so they should be leaving soon.&amp;quot; I waited by the door and looked at the men. There were eight of them. One was about six-foot-seven-inches tall, and he was the only one without a tie. One was about a foot shorter, and all the men gathered around him. He was wearing a suit with a black-and-white pin-dot pattern, and a blue shirt with a white spread collar. He had a dark tan; his hair was dyed coal-black, and his teeth were bleached so white they flashed almost blue. He and all the rest of the men did not look so different from the men I&amp;#039;d grown up with, and I decided that they were either salesmen or mobsters. After about fifteen minutes, the hostess said: &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;d go up and ask them if you could sit down at the bar if I wasn&amp;#039;t so scared of them.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Oh, that&amp;#039;s probably because you don&amp;#039;t know them,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; she said. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s because I do know them.&amp;quot; She sidled up closer to me and whispered, &amp;quot;They&amp;#039;re members of the Mafia.&amp;quot; Then she took a step back, and her childish face set itself with a pout of sudden resolve. &amp;quot;But you know what? I have cojones, and you&amp;#039;ve been waiting long enough. I&amp;#039;m going to ask if you can sit down with them.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t have to have cojones on my account,&amp;quot; I said, but she was already on her way to talk to the little tanned man. Still smiling, she said something to him, and he studied me through the crowd. Then she waved me over. I walked to the empty seat without looking at the men. I ordered immediately from a bartender named Victor, and drank an Italian white wine. After about five minutes, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  &amp;quot;What did you order?&amp;quot; asked the man in the black-and-white suit. Up close, his teeth were even brighter and his hair even darker than they had appeared from a distance. But he looked much older.  &amp;quot;The bucatini,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;With the octopus?&amp;quot; he asked. I told him yes, and he said, &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s what I order. Did you order it al dente?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;With all due respect,&amp;quot; I said, &amp;quot;the chef is famous. I wouldn&amp;#039;t insult him by telling him how to cook.&amp;quot; He thought about this for a second, and then he nodded. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re right,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;They do it pretty good here. You just have to watch out for other places. You never want your bucatini soft.&amp;quot; I went back to drinking my wine and trying to sit as inconspicuously as possible, though I had already been discovered. Victor delivered my first course \u2014 raw fish, Italian style \u2014 and there was another tap on my shoulder. &amp;quot;Where are you from?&amp;quot; the man with the bright teeth asked.  &amp;quot;Well, I&amp;#039;m originally from New York, but I live in Georgia.&amp;quot; He tapped himself on the chest. &amp;quot;Me?&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;New York. New York. And New York.&amp;quot; My plate of bucatini came out, and I started eating it. A tap on my shoulder, and I turned around. &amp;quot;Can I buy you a martini?&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;I consider myself an expert in the martini.&amp;quot; Now, I hate martinis, and never drink them. &amp;quot;Absolutely,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Victor,&amp;quot; he said, and then gestured toward his own drink and then to me. &amp;quot;Like this.&amp;quot; Victor began making the martini under steady scrutiny. The man with the bright teeth began shaking his head, and then said, with sudden vehemence, &amp;quot;Victor, shake the fuck out of it.&amp;quot; Victor began shaking the cocktail extravagantly over his shoulder, like someone who&amp;#039;d been ordered to dance in a movie western. There was a martini glass set before me, with particles of ice sliding down the sides. Victor poured the martini from the shaker, and it was still slightly effervescent. &amp;quot;What do you think?&amp;quot; the man with the bright teeth said. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s the best martini I&amp;#039;ve ever had,&amp;quot; I said with perfect honesty. He nodded. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s because he shook the fuck out of it,&amp;quot; he said. Then he signaled to his associates, and they all, at once, repaired to a corner table in the restaurant. I thought of buying him \u2014 them \u2014 a bottle of wine, but decided that I would risk insulting him, and never came up with an answer to his generosity. I drank my martini down, and when Victor walked away for a moment while settling the bill, I took a look at the cash register and saw the name &amp;quot;Marino, Dan.&amp;quot; The next day, I looked him up on Google and saw that Daniel Marino, seventy-one years old, was one of three bosses in the Gambino crime family. A few months later, I saw that he had pleaded guilty to a charge of conspiracy, and been sentenced to serve five years in jail for approving the killing of an informant, who was also his nephew. He is in a prison hospital now, for ailments undisclosed, and whenever I think of him I think of two things:  One, I wonder if he&amp;#039;s allowed to blacken his hair in prison, and what he looks like white-haired and pale. And two, I still owe the man a drink. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/food-drink/bars/reviews/a14112/drinking-with-the-don/>