My own Thanksgiving: I was the guest of Luigi Romaniello, the Waldorf’s managing director, in the hotel’s new Lex Yard restaurant. Just months old, Lex Yard is beyond terrific. Décor, service, menu. As I left, there came an unfamiliar phone caller. She quickly spoke about Victoria Gotti.
Her dad, of course, was gangster John Gotti, who died in prison in ’02. I knew him. We shared lawyer Barry Slotnick. I took Anthony Quinn to Gotti’s trial. Gotti’s playground was nightclubs. My husband worked nightclubs. In New York, Italian restaurateurs would slam a bottle of unrequested red wine on our table with another unrequested “Courtesy of John G.”
I was the only one Gotti spoke to from prison.
In July ’03 at a party I gave, I reported Victoria’s stilettos were so high she could barely walk in them. In ’08 she was unloading her Long Island home for about $4 million. In ’02 she had open-heart surgery. I knew Victoria Gotti. She lived big.
The caller said Victoria’s world has changed — and the voice explained they’re calling me because they knew I knew the family. Per the caller, Victoria was in a Long Island hospital awaiting a kidney transplant. Placed in a room for nearly an hour while staff managed the arrival. Victoria, emotional. Devoted son Carmine, who said he would donate his kidney to his mom, stayed with her.
The telephone lady said Victoria knew word was getting out. A few false callers. Supposedly saying they were her doctors, lawyers, family. At the desk, a nurse quietly said, “She needs to inform her regular doctor that she’s here.” I was told that through tears Victoria said things like: “My son . . . How did I get so blessed with a son like this?”
Thanksgiving. People had gone away. Nobody was anywhere. Few reachable through their regular numbers. Nobody in their regular places. I had to leave for dinner. I couldn’t be late. I had no number, nowhere, to call. Nurses wouldn’t say anything. Doctors were on golf courses. I rang the caller’s number back only to learn Victoria had returned to her house.
An ageless wonder
I receive a crate of emails daily. Some start “Dear Stupid.” One from a political pro. Knows everything. Hears everything. A not wildly brilliant West Side Democrat — like there’s anything else — NOT partial to our president. After our term-limited head of state Donald Trump played catch-ball with Clamdammsy, this letter-writer sent me this: “Could the Donald be setting himself up for a run for mayor? Like when Zohran Mamdani’s term is up? Like maybe exist in antique Gracie Mansion, whose john is even too small for his shoulder pads?” Her thought was: Forget age limits — Donald could outdo Methuselah.
Get it in gear
Looking for holiday gifts? Try cars. Jay Leno likes Stanley Steamers. Sultan of Brunei Hassanal Bolkiah has 600 Rollses and his car collection is worth $6 billion. Gordon Ramsay cooks in Ferraris. Jerry Seinfeld buys and sells Porsches. Sold part of his collection for $22 mil. And what do stars, like maybe Nicolas Cage, do on the holiday? Nic: “Channel surf. Movie-making is addictive. I’ve been acting since I’m 17. I’m a much better, more approachable person when I’m working. It’s a balancing act between my career and my family. Acting comes out of a place called survival. I’m more balanced when I’m working.” Meanwhile, there’s the NYC roll out of the documentary “The King of Color” on Dec. 12. That’s Larry Herbert, 97, inventor of the Pantone Matching System, followed by Del Frisco’s dinner.
Overheard recently on a city street: “I’m weary of people saying there’s too much crime in our town. It’s gotten so bad that our own bank keeps its money in another bank. So tough that when a friend called the police for help, there was a three-week waiting list.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.
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