RAT PACK AT VILLA VENICE

JOHN MCDONOUGH
THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, DOWN BEAT


The Villa Venice was a neglected grand dame of a restaurant located alongside an eastern bend in the Des Plaines River at 2855 Milwaukee Ave, a no-man's land of unicorporated Cook County where the only law was the relatively forgiving and usually remote county shriff. Since it's heyday in early 50's, it had lapsed into a kind of shabby gentility, getting by mostly on private banquets, weddings and bar mitzvahs. So when the news broke on Sept. l8, l962, that the biggest stars on earth would be comming to this remote surburban outback, even the locatl show biz cognoscenti were caught by surprise.

Knowing what I know now, I'm amazed at how easily
I secured a reservation. I was no high roller, merely a third year college student. Yet, I just called up and gave my name. "Tues. first show," the man said. Cover and minimum was $25.00, which was serious cash in l962.

We arrived early and faced only a small traffic backup on Milwaukee Ave. A long driveway lit by the glow of gas lamps let to the entry portico where a valled took my parents, Chevy. Inside we joined 40 or 50 others behind a rope waiting to be seated. Some men were in tuxes. The makeup on the women blared like an AM radio with the volume up too loud.

A waiter escorted us through the carpeted showroom to a tiny table , (diameter, about two feet), which we
shared with two other people. As we ate our steak dinners, which arrived almost as soon as we sat down, we carved from our wrists with shoulders hunched in, lest a stray elbow poke the worng person at a neighboring table.

The lights went down shortly after 9. A white blade of light cut through the smoky air and caught Dean Martin in a brilliant column of brightness.