Sammy, "Do you know any more like you?" and Sammy had said,
"Sure!" which is how I (and eventually Dimitri) got involved in one of
the biggest, ugliest train wrecks of an organization in the history of New
York.
The Silver Shadow couldn't keep track. Gino's New York-two kitchens,
two dining rooms, outdoor café and 300 seats—opened on the waterfront
nearly simultaneously with its slightly smaller sister in Baltimore's
Harbor Place. Plans were under way for more of them in Boston, New
Orleans and elsewhere. It was Big '80s time, with all that implied: too
much money, too much coke, both in the hands of hyperactive,
overconfident yuppie businessmen and investors—and at Gino's, it
reached critical mass. The Shadow seemed to start up a new enterprise
every other day. In the food court across the way from Gino's, he opened
a gelato shop and a thin-crust pizzeria, then zipped off to Italy to buy
warehouses full of plates, flatware, gelato bases, furnishings—and then
forgot where he put them. Chefs, managers, sous-chefs, partners rotated
in and out with no rhyme or reason to their comings and goings; there
were always a few chefs in the pipeline, shacked up in hotels, on full
salary, waiting for the call telling them where to go. The Silver Shadow
bought chefs the way most people buy TV Guide at the supermarket—an
impulse buy at the register, after they do their real shopping.
I had been hired, typically of the Silver Shadow, on impulse, and
immediately tasked to take over Let's-Call-It-Dexter's, his relatively
small American bistro on the Upper East Side.
"They really need you over there!" crowed the Shadow enthusiastically.
"They're really looking forward to meeting you!"
So, I quit the Columbus Avenue pick-up joint I'd been working, and
hustled over to Dexter's. They had, it turned out, no idea I was coming.
Worse, Dexter's and the Shadow's other restaurant—a Northern Italian
place next door—shared the same kitchen and the same chef and crew;