It's easy to imagine a mobster and his moll slipping through the door of this little art-deco dining room: him in a broad-shouldered suit, her in spangles and a long strand of pearls. He takes her by the elbow and guides her to one of the too-close-for-comfort tables, where candlelight and thick white linens await them. They order martinis -- dry, up, with olives -- and oysters. Then he hunkers over the menu, considering his options in the room's dim light. "Da lady'll have da veal chop," he finally announces to the stocky Italian waiter. "Me, I want da tenderloin with lobster. Make it rare. An' bring us a bottle a dat Château Lafitte Rothschild," he continues, unconsciously fingering the big wad of hundreds in his pocket. (No doubt he'll need every one of them.) When the waiter leaves, she moves her little hand higher up his thigh, then a little higher still, and gives him a squeeze. "You're da best, doll," he tells her gruffly, and kisses her, hard. Yeah, at Johnny's Bar, it's kind of like that.