The original version of this article was published in NEO Magazine in 2016. It was taken from the book “Eleven Days to the Promised Land” by Dino Pavlou, a close friend to Sinatra back in the day. The final version (as seen below) was published by the Saturday Evening Post in 2020. Reprinted here with permission.
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A CHRISTMAS STORY: “Hey Greek, you got that old Chevy outside?”
It was Christmas Eve, 1974, and as always Jimmy Weston’s Supper Club in New York City was crowded. Customers were enjoying the music of Tommy Furtado’s Band and Tommy himself singing Christmas carols. We had the place decorated for the holidays and the snowy weather outside added to the festive spirit of the season.
Pictured above, Frank Sinatra, “Mr. Christmas” himself.
Before midnight, Frank Sinatra walked in with his best friend and trusted companion, Jilly Rizzo. This wasn’t a surprise: it was expected, because when Sinatra was in town he would always stop by for a night cap or a late meal before calling it a night. After warm greetings and a hug, I escorted Sinatra and Jilly to Sinatra’s favorite table, number seventeen. It was a round corner table near my desk, where I could keep an eye on things, and we always kept it reserved for Sinatra while he was in town.
Later, after a few drinks, Sinatra decided to have pizza at his favorite joint. “Hey Greek, you got that old Chevy outside?” he asked me.
“Yes, it’s outside,” I said.
He stood up, peeled off a couple hundred dollar bills from his wad, and gave it to the waiter. “Greek, you just got yourself drafted,” he said. “Let’s go.”
I asked our captain George Pappas to take charge while I was gone and the three of us walked outside, where Sinatra’s limo was waiting. Sinatra told his driver to go in and get a meal and have a good time until we got back. We got into my old monster Chevy. It was bitter-cold, snowing heavily, and everything was covered with snow—although driving was not a problem on the streets that night in New York City: the snow melts fast from the steam coming out from the subway grates.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“Uptown,” Jilly said.
We drove uptown on Park Avenue until we reached Harlem, and made a beeline for First Avenue between 117th and 118th Streets, to Patsy’s Pizzeria. It was then I realized why we’d taken the Chevy; it wasn’t a good idea to arrive there in a limo in the wee hours. I parked in front of the place and went in with Sinatra and Jilly.
We were greeted by Carmela, the owner, and a one-hundred percent amazing Italian woman. When she saw Frank, she rushed to him with open arms.
“Frankie, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you!”
Dino Pavlou with his grandson
She threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug–but when she pulled away, Sinatra’s overcoat was now white with flour from her apron. Embarrassed, Carmela started talking fast in Italian-as though cursing herself-while trying to brush off Sinatra’s coat.
Don’t worry about that darling,” Sinatra said. “Just make us your delicious pizza.”
Carmela rushed away–and soon came back with a hot pie. As we started to eat, Sinatra looked out the window and saw two forlorn-looking homeless guys staring at us. They looked cold and very hungry. He waved them in and he ordered pizza for them. Soon more guys showed–and it wasn’t long until the place was packed with Sinatra’s impromptu and ravenous guests—and he ordered pizza for every one of them.
Meanwhile, Jilly and I finished our slices, but Sinatra was eating slowly; he had only taken a few bites; his eyes were tearing up from watching these poor hungry guys gobbling down the hot, steaming slices as fast as they could. That got Jilly’s attention. He tried to make a joke to divert Sinatra’s attention.
“You see Frank,” he said, “you’re not as famous as you think you are. No one even recognized you here.”
“If you were as hungry and cold as they are, you wouldn’t recognize me, either,” Frank said.
We stayed and ate with these poor guys, putting away the pizza faster than Carmela could make it and it was a magical night, only Sinatra couldn’t hold back the tears.
So finally Jilly stood up. “It’s time to go now,” he said.
We got up, and Frank pulled out a wad of bills as big as his fist, all hundreds; there had to be at least $4000 there – and gave it to Carmela; all of it, without counting it. “What the hell, it’s Christmas,” he said. “Keep the pizza coming through Christmas, darling,” he told Carmella. “I’ll send you more money, and keep everything under wraps; never tell the press” He started towards the door, with me and Jilly following, when the first two guys he had called in now walked over to him.
“Thank you Mr. Sinatra,” they said, “and have a Merry Christmas.”
Every bum in the joint got up and followed suit, came over and thanked Sinatra, calling him by name. Frank just stood there, shaking hands, with tears streaming down his face.
“Come back here tomorrow,” he said, “and there’ll be more pizza. Stay off the junk and have yourselves a Merry Christmas.”
As we got into the car, the men came out and started shouting. “Thank you, Mr. Sinatra! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”
Afterwards, it was quiet as we drove back to Jimmy Weston’s. Jilly tried to make conversation, but Sinatra was silent.
Only one time he spoke: “Have you guys ever been hungry and cold?”
“I have,” Frank continued. “When I was young. And I’ll never forget.”
And Frank never did forget. You see, what hardly anyone realized back then and what damn few people know now – is that what happened at Patsy’s Pizzeria that night was not a oneoff; Frankie did that kind of thing all his life, wherever he went.
Many Christmases have come and gone since then. But that Christmas night was special and I was very fortunate to be a part of it. For those bums, those derelicts – it was the best night they ever knew. And I got to be there.
Frank Sinatra was the finest man I ever knew, and I’ve known the best of ‘em.
Sandra Lynn Sandavol 