It’s been a long time since the once well-deserved onus of bad hotel restaurants dissipated, not least because modern hotels began seeing that their dining rooms were not just necessary conveniences but potential profit centers. The change came when hotel management saw the potential promotional value in signing on celebrated chefs who might transform them into destination restaurants, even competing for Michelin stars. Not many made much of a dent—Alain Ducasse flopped (twice) in New York, as did Louis Outhier and Alain Senderens (none of whom actually spent much time cooking in New York), but Jean-Georges Vongerichten, Will Guidara at NoMad and Michael White at Ai Fiori all succeeded admirably, and their restaurants are considered among the city’s finest. Problem is, rarely are these chefs ever actually cooking at their restaurants.
       The high luxury Pierre Hotel, opened in 1930 on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park, and its Café Pierre was one of the top dining and club venues for decades up until the 1960s, afterwards going through various incarnations of disparate quality. Now under the Taj Group since 2005, efforts have been made to make its dining room called Perrine into a place that seems naturally to fit into anyone’s idea of New York glamour without pretension.
     Under Executive Chef Ashfer Biju, born in India and having long experience cooking in London and Southeast Asia, Perrine is not only one of the loveliest of the city’s restaurants but, with its largely modern American menu, proof that the experience of rigorously trained chefs like Biju pays off in the simplest dishes as well as the most involved. Unlike so many young chefs who concoct a few signature dishes, chefs of Biju’s background know how to make everything from a deeply flavorful, clear consommé to an impeccably roasted chicken. And they usually have the hotel’s carte blanche to buy the best quality ingredients.
      A couple of years ago Biju added some delectable Indian seasonings and dishes to his menu, including steaming naan bread I still remember, but those are sadly gone. Some of the other dishes remain, including a superb tuna tartare with green beans, olives, basil and a Dijon dressing ($26). It’s good to see an old favorite of American cuisine back in the form of crab imperial toast (below) on rye bread with fresh herbs, Gruyère and a pleasant modern inflection of jalapeño ($25).
       There are pasta dishes, as has become requisite on every American menu these days, including hand-cut cavatelli in a hearty bolognese sauce flecked with fresh oregano ($29) and linguine in a white clam sauce, spiced with tangy lemon, a good dose of garlic and Serrano chilies, though it is pricey at $35, especially since you don’t get an abundance of clams.    
      “Simply Prepared Grilled or Roasted” items are all expertly produced, focusing on the quality of the ingredients rather than flourishes. So, a good portion of crisped lemon shrimp ($43) brought out all the sweetness of the shrimp balanced with the acidity of the lemon. King salmon ($42) puts to shame all the cheaper fishy varieties so often served elsewhere; Biju accompanies it with du puy lentils, spinach and a cream lemon dill sauce to enhance the flavor. Roasted branzino ($43) came at a precise hot temperature, crisp on the skin, juicy within, served with spiced tomato, braised eggplant, kale and a caper dressing that gives a hint of what Biju used to do with this Indian dishes.
     Also recommended is the special of tender shortribs ($54) in a wine-dark, complex reduction (below).
      I wouldn’t usually spend much time talking about roast chicken, except that the local, farm-raised variety at Perrine is the start for a dish both simple and sumptuous, with the bird itself richly flavorful ($39).   Biju shows the expertise I spoke of in rendering a perfectly reduced, translucent white wine sauce with pan juices along with pee wee potatoes and mushrooms.  My delight was not in the complexity of a dish I can find in myriad restaurants anywhere in America; it was in the way Perrine’s showed such care, from the choice of the product to the careful cooking of it, that makes it something memorable. I’ve been thinking about that bird for days afterwards.
      I regretted I did not order the Pierre Burger ($29) this time out, if only for the pommes frites that go with it, one of which I plucked from a serving of a friend who was eating at the bar. It was a fabulous fry.
      Desserts (all $12), too, show the mastery of experience, especially in a hotel where weddings and banquets demand an endless production of them, not least a silky New York-style cheesecake with strawberries and whipped cream and a double chocolate cake with wonderful crème brûlée ice cream (right). There’s also a trio of ice cream and sherbets ($11).
     The wine list is not out to win trophies for range but is instead designed to allow guests to choose a good one by the glass or bottle, with a sensible selection of wines from Europe, the Americas, and, for once, New York State.
     The staff at Perrine is, I’m told, new and there were some awkward snafus and inattention on a night when the room wasn’t at all full. I trust that will improve with a crack of the whip.
      On its looks and location alone, Perrine is a glamorous spot, shiny, mirrored, sleek, with thick white tablecloths, excellent lighting, low background music (which might be better chosen), wine glasses for different varietals and a real Gotham ambience of a kind you won’t easily come across outside the city. (I do wish they had retained the revolving door.) Part of it is the Pierre’s pedigree: It’s more Cole Porter than Woody Allen, more Audrey Hepburn than Beyoncé, more Bill Blass than Halston, and the food is a lesson in how to cook the classics with dedicated flair.

Perrine is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner daily.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

         In fact, David had been in touch with special agent Giuseppe Primerano, who also knew Frank English, David’s F.B.I. contact in Washington. The three of them had worked together on the Gotti case, especially when it came to the mobster’s laundering drug money through Swiss banks.
         Primerano held the rank of tenente colonnello (lieutenant colonel) in GICO (Gruppo d’investigazione sulla criminalità organizzata), operating under the Finance Police force. David had arranged a meeting with Primerano the next day at his headquarters on Via Cardinale Guglielmo San Felice, near the Piazza Dante. 
         But that afternoon Katie and David decided to do a bit of touring of the city, have lunch, and put their heads together over a carafe of wine. 
         “Hey, maybe we should try that trattoria Frascella told us about,” said Katie.
         “You mean the one he either did or did not eat in?” asked David.
         “Unless you have another suggestion.”
         “There was a place I used to go to with Giovanni near the Garibaldi train station, called Mimi. Very basic, lots of seafood and vegetables.”
         “After the way we’ve been eating, that sounds like a good choice. Do we need a taxi?”
         David glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s 12:30 now, and no one eats until one around here, so we could walk it.  Be good for us.”
         David located the trattoria on the map, on Via Alfonso d’Aragona, about a ten-minute walk, so they took their time, passing the baroque 17th century Basilica of Saint Peter, whose location was said to be where St. Peter himself preached while in Naples.  The couple had time to stop into the church, which is wedged in by soot-darkened buildings and parked cars everywhere. 
         “Somber place,” said David, looking up at the round arches and minimally decorated dome.
         “Of all the churches in Naples,” said Katie, “this is not one of the ones I’d choose to go to Mass at. It’s so cold looking.”
         They continued on and found Mimi alla Ferovia (below) almost empty at ten to one, but they were welcomed by the owner and told to sit anywhere they wished.  After ordering linguine alla Mimi, with assorted seafood and tomato (below), and bucatini with anchovies, capers and pepperoncini, they helped themselves to an antipasti table groaning with stuffed zucchini blossoms, fried eggplant, and rustic bread with salumi and cheeses. They ordered a bottle of Greco di Tufo brought in an ice bucket.
         They spoke about Naples over the antipasti, then, with the pasta course, David was surprised when Katie grinned and asked him, “So, David, how’s your love life?”
         David shook his head, smiled, and said, “Not exactly roaring. How’s yours?”
         “I’m seeing a guy. But I asked you first.”
         David hated hearing she was “seeing a guy,” but said, “Ever since my wife died, I haven’t been out and about much. I’m forty-eight years old, I live pretty much as I want to. I don’t hang out at the neighborhood bars.”
         “You’re forty-eight?” asked Katie. “I thought you were younger.  You’re a good-looking guy. I bet there are a lot of women who’d think you’d be a catch.”
         “Not many I’m interested in right now,” he said, feeling that any hope of Katie warming to him any further was pretty much gone after hearing about her “seeing a guy.”
         “So who’s the guy?” he asked.
         “Name’s Dan Lucia.”
         “Italian. That’s good. What’s he do?”
         Katie wrinkled her nose a little and said, “He’s . . . a . . .  lawyer.”
         “Why am I not surprised? Daddy’s girl.”
         “I don’t know. Maybe so. I just like Danny for what he is.”
         “And what’s that?”
         Fluttering her eyes, she said, “Oh, he likes long walks on the beach and brings me daisies in a coffee can and makes me laugh.”
         “Seriously, what do you like about the guy?”
         “He’s a good guy. Nice looking. Works hard, gets along with my parents.”
         David hated hearing that, too. “So, how serious are you about . . .  Danny?”
         “I don’t know yet. See how it goes when we get back.  But right now I’m with you, drinking a nice bottle of vino and eating anchovies and don’t have to worry about anchovy breath.”
         David laughed, but he got the picture.

                                                                      *                *                *

         The Finance Police headquarters was located on a tree-lined street in a large neo-classic building with a tri-color flag of Italy and the blue flag with stars of the police.  Inside, guards in grey uniforms with green berets passed Katie and David through security to the second floor, where Giuseppe Primerano, dark suit and tie, greeted them warmly, his arms outstretched.  He looked somewhat older than David, olive complexion, graying hair.
         David introduced Katie, to whom the officer slightly bowed and then ushered them into his office, whose desk was piled with folders, as were two chairs.
         “Mi dispiace, I’m sorry,” he said, “This is a madhouse!”
         “Looks about the same as the last time I was here,” said David.
         “Si, and probably the same cases, too.  Things move slowly in this department.”
         “But I hear you’ve been pretty successful recently. Put some of the top guys away.”
         “We investigate, we arrest them, they go to court two years later, then it’s out of my hands.  I’m like the exterminator you call when your house is infested. The insects usually come back.”
         He picked up the folders on the chairs and piled them on the floor.
         “Caffè?”
         Katie and David nodded, and Primerano hit a button on his phone and ordered three espressos. Katie took out her recorder and asked if it was all right to use it. Primerano waved his hands and said, “I’m sorry, no. But you can take notes.”
         “So, David, how can I help you? You’re looking for Al Capone’s gold and you think it’s here in Naples. You know, there was a movie made by Vittorio de Sica called Gold of Naples?”
         Both David and Katie shrugged.
         “Well, it has nothing to do with our Mr. Capone,” said Primerano.
         “So,” said David, “I think the gold is here somewhere in Italy,” then began again the whole story of what had led them to the lieutenant colonel’s office, mentioning their visit to Giovanni Lucadamo the day before.
         “Molte interessante,” said Primerano. “You’ve told me things I didn’t know.  Of course, Al Capone is known to every Neapolitan, though the current generation has no interest in him. His reputation these days is mezzo-e-mezzo: Half the oldtimers respect him because his people came from Campania, and the other half think he is a black mark on our region.  So many tourists they come to Naples and want to know about Al Capone. Al Capone! Where he was born, where he lived.  They are so disappointed when they’re told he wasn’t born here and never set foot in Naples, although I’m sure some of the tour guides make up stories to the contrary.”
         “So what have you heard?” asked Katie. “It’s a fifty-year-old case.”
         “Allora, I was never part of the case, and it was closed as far as our office was concerned sometime in the 1950s, I think.”
         “So there was an open file on it in Italy?”
         “Oh, yes, I took it out for you. But it was only a part of a much bigger investigation as to what happened to all the gold that had been stored away in Italian banks (above, right) by the Fascisti.  You know that Mussolini even begged Italians abroad to send their gold to him.”
         Katie and David both said they knew women who’d donated their wedding rings to Il Duce.
         “It was an amazing appeal,” said Primerano. “And in those days, before the war, he really did try to use it to fix the Italian economy, which was terrible.  Mussolini’s support for Franco in the Spanish Civil War went very badly and was draining Italy’s gold reserves.  So it would have been fantastic for him to accept American bullion from the great Al Capone.”