The Last Time I Cooked for Al Capone

Last Suppers

The last time I cooked for Al Capone he wanted something ‘special’ - he was having dinner with his mother. 

I arrived mid-morning find he was still getting dressed. He lounged in a big leather barber’s chair he’d had installed in his parlour, his hand held out, dainty for the manicurist. There was the strong niff of extract of lime and cordite that always filled the air wherever he went. Dressed in shirt, shorts, socks and suspenders, and ignoring us both, he was shouting into the phone. How he managed to yell like that and keep his cigar from falling from lips that were forever slick with saliva, I’ll never know. Shame he wasn't able to keep the dangles of drool from escaping down his chin as well. 

‘Let me know when it's done, you sap,’ he bellowed, into the mouthpiece. ‘Or I’ll take care of it myself. Right after I take care of you.’

He slammed the receiver back into its cradle, knocking the phone to the floor.

‘You,’ he said, turning on me, as if nothing had happened and inspecting the knot of his yellow silk tie in a hand mirror. ‘I want this meal special, see?’ 

He had some business to take care of himself and had therefore arranged a day of pampering for his mother - spa, beautician, hairdresser, manicure for her too - the works. At first I wondered if Mother’s Day wasn’t a slightly more appropriate date than Valentine's Day? But he had a temper and some men and their mothers were not to be crossed, so I kept quiet. 

The yellow of his tie was a terrible mismatch with all the gold that dripped from him - watch, rings, pins and links. Truly shocking. 

‘And here’s the recipe for the cake Ma loves. You follow it, you hear? You mess it up and I’ll mess you up, understand?’

He handed me a worn, dog-eared paper and I read it through, appalled. What muck was this? Condensed milk? Jesus, what next? Philadelphia? I read on. My God, it actually did have Philadelphia. 

I considered asking him if he was sure, might he not want something less …? Tiramisu for example? But it was his mother’s wish. So, Tarta al whisky it was.

I had plenty of other things to prepare but because the cake would need cooling, I got on with that first. I made a sponge by getting back into schoolboy mode and whisking 3 eggs to a beautiful fluff with 90 grams of sugar. I then folded 90 grams of flour into the mixture and cooked it for 18 mins at 180ºc in a baking tin. When it came out, I lined a cake tin with parchment and then covered it with the genoise.

Next, I boiled 50g of sugar and 100ml water with 30ml whisky ol’ Scarface had managed to get hold of and before it coloured, I took it off the heat and spooned it over the sponge. Then I mixed the scraped out seeds from a vanilla pod, 150g of philadelphia cheese and 30ml more whiskey into 150g of condensed milk, before folding it all into 250ml of whipped cream. I spread this over the sponge, covered it and put it in the freezer. 

Whilst it cooled, I made a syrup of 60 grams each of sugar and water and boiled it, again till just before it coloured, then waited a minute before whisking in 4 yolks followed by a gelatin leaf I had soaked in water. I spread this goo over the cake, and returned it to the freezer.

I was about to get on with the rest of the meal when there was a knock at the door. From where I stood at the stove I could see that Big Al went to answer it himself. Odd, I thought. Odder still when he invited his two callers in - two coppers in dark blue Chicago PD uniforms, both  carrying violin cases. The Big Guy cracked a joke and the two officers chuckled along with him. He picked up his own violin case and the three went out.

He returned alone a few hours later, blood splattered and pleased as punch with himself. He fixed himself a drink and came to the kitchen to check on the preparations. He insisted on seeing the unfinished cake. I tried to dissuade him but as you can imagine he was not a man to be put off. 

When his mother arrived, looking much like a cake herself, he ushered her in, making a big show of her.

‘Ma, don't you look a picture,’ he said, loudly.

‘Now, Alphonsus, flattery won't work on me,’ she replied, blushing. You could tell she liked the compliment. ‘What have you been getting up to?’

‘Aw, just business, Ma. You know me,’ he replied. ‘Say, let's have a drink. What about a nice eggnog? You know you like eggnog. Let’s have an eggnog.’

She nodded agreement and flushed to purple as he goosed her before going to the drinks cabinet.

The meal went off without a hitch until dessert. I was about to caramelise the top of the cake with my blow torch when the doorbell went.

The Big Fellow, deep in conversation with his mother in the candlelight, signalled for me to answer.

‘Special delivery,’ the man said, as I pulled the door open. Goddammit, if it wasn't a tarta de whisky twenty times the size of mine. And on wheels. 

I wheeled the cake in and handed Snorky the card that came with it. He opened it.

‘Why, of all the…’ he began, jumping to his feet. But he never got to finish. Two men, dressed as women, in wigs and full make up, burst out the cake and machine gunned him dead right where he sat. 

His mother carried on eating her meatballs as if nothing had happened.

I went to the kitchen and threw my own cake in the bin.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Valentine%27s_Day_Massacre

https://www.biography.com/crime/al-capone

https://www.trumpers.com/services-pricelist/

https://elpais.com/gastronomia/recetas/2015/07/30/receta/1438262711_696332.html

https://smileandgun.wordpress.com/2015/11/11/the-many-nicknames-of-al-capone/