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Saturday night.

On the west bank.

In the middle of nowhere.

If I was going to the electric chair, this would be the place where I would have my last meal.

Established in 1946.

Greeted at the door by Mr Johnny Mosca himself.

The rich history, and fascinating rumors take a backseat after the first bite of Chicken a la grande.

I got completely wiped out.


BBQ shrimp.

Crab salad.

Pasta Bordelaise.

Sliced fillet mignon with garlic.

Pineapple fluff. (heaven!)

Cash only.

Which should immediately dispel any notions that this place has (or had) ties to organized crime.

I still have left-overs.

Don't go alone; six people is the magic number.

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