Dinner with "The Family"

Last Saturday night, Shelly and I were invited to a birthday party hosted at a local restaurant, Po Pazzo. I could go lengths into the birthday party itself. The mere fact that it was to celebrate a 34th birthday of a lady Shelly and I might have only met twice before, that she used to work for a plastic surgeon, and all but three of the women at the dinner (Shelly being one) had "alterations" done (see "Defining SoCal"), should be an indication of what this party was like. Originally, Shelly actually tried to decline the invitation, but the host insisted that we come, and since it was a free dinner, at one of the premier Italian restaurants in Little Italy, we figured why not? Bob and Tom, our outlet to San Diego's elite social society, and the mutual friends of the birthday girl were also going, so Shelly and I figured, if nothing else, we would have them to spend the evening with. As it turned out, we were not the only ones who barely knew our host, and our whole end of the table had a wonderful evening drinking too much free wine and eating an incredible three course meal. I really could go on about the dinner and its company. In fact, in retrospect, my last blog entry, where I attempted to define SoCal, I only succeeded in defining the under 30 crowd of Southern California. The rest of "typical SoCal" could be defined by the company at this birthday dinner -aging women, shamlessly hitting on younger men, trying to hold on to the last shreds of their youth through three-a-day workouts, repeated plastic surgeory, and plenty of martinis, all the while explaining, in depth, the intracies to divorce, how their husband really cheated on them first, what their psychiatrist advises, and how screwed up their children are, but it's okay because their psychiatrist is going to see the children, too, starting next month. This was coupled with talks of newly purchased Mercedes, Louie Vatan bags and how expensive gas had become in the same sentence. I would like to add (in case I come off shallow) that Shelly and I were one of the few to bring a birthday present. Given we did not buy it until a couple of hours before the party, we did get the host a pair of outrageously priced, Italian wine glasses. We figured it was like a wedding- you bring a gift comprable to the plate of food being served- and apparently we were the only ones who thought this. Among the few other gifts given, a bottle of wine was about the nicest gift besides ours. (I tolled Shelly to grab our present and we would replace it with one of the many unopened bottles of wine. She just rolled her eyes at me.)

Again, the birthday dinner was interesting (not to mention the husband was a pediatrist, so when he introduce himself as Dr. Shmuckitelli, I used the Sienfield line, "You mean Pediatrist Shmuckitelli"), and if the dinner was hosted anywhere else this blog might have ended here, but it was held at Po Pazzo, one of the many restaurants owned by the Busalacchi brothers. Had I ever heard of the Busalacchi family before last weekend? No. But I sure know of them now, for apparently they own half of San Diego's Little Italy. Before writing this blog I did some research on the Mafia in San Diego, and though there are no stories mentioning the Busalacchi family being part of the mafia, I will describe Joe Busalacchi and let you decide. I saw Joe Busalacchi while we and the fake blondes were eating dinner. He was sitting on the side walk, dressed in a white linen suit, black silk shirt, and Gucci shoes, and smoking a Cuban cigar -yes, after my six months in South America, I can assure you it was a real Cuban. At one point a big, fat man sat down beside him. This guy, dressed in a velour sweat suit, definitely looked like he stepped off the Saprano's set. People were, literally, walking out of their way to talk this man. I am sure, if there was a ring to kiss, they would have done so . . .or maybe he really was on the Sapranos.

As the evening went on, I had enough free wine to start feeling froggy. I and two other gentlemen of the birthday party picked up conversation with Joe Busalacchi. I will say that he is an extremely nice gentleman and also very Italian. Other than the suit, shoes, the random pedestrians walking up to him to say hello, and the "for get about it" that he said more than once, there was nothing to give him away as mafioso. Though, at one point a member of the wedding party literally said, "I am in the family, too," and went through a long distorted family tree, trying to connect himself to Joe Busalacchi. Mr. Busalacchi just nodded politely and let the gentlemen try to convince him they were long lost brothers, or something. He smiled when I uttered, "He's just trying to get made without working for it." The night carried on and Shelly and I finally made it home, only for me to swear off drinking with a terrible hangover the next morning.

...........

On a completely seperate note. Let this be warning to all parents: if your child can climb in it, on it, or over it, he/she will do so.

No, Shelly did not put Madison on the dishwasher lid. Instead, Madison took it upon herself to climb on the lid and play with the dirty dishes as Shelly loaded them into the dishwasher. My first thought was of Daisy, the dog I grew up with, who would would lick the dirty dishes as my father loaded them.