It's nothing without the big cheese

North Enders say shop's sales, quality suffering since owner's arrest in bribery case

In this file photo, Carmen "Cheeseman" DiNunzio listens as his lawyer argues a motion to dismiss racketeering charges against him during a court hearing held at Salem Superior Court in October 2007. (Globe File Photo)

Carmen DiNunzio may or may not be the incompetent mobster that federal authorities portray him to be.

But say this for the guy: He makes one heck of an Italian sub.

Which is why, to his many fellow gastronomes in the North End, it's a travesty that a mere bribery charge got him barred by a federal judge from stepping into his own shop, Fresh Cheese, a business that he loves and has earned him the oft-repeated moniker, the Cheeseman.

Many residents are left to ask, which is worse, the Cheeseman without his cheese shop, or the cheese shop without the Cheeseman?

The answer, for many, is the latter.

Sales, DiNunzio's lawyer says, are suffering in his absence. Quality has declined, others whisper. A recent visit, for instance, resulted in a stellar sandwich with cured meats and imported cheeses (topped with dreamy olive oil), but also in a buffalo mozzarella that was sold 12 days past its due and tasted like sour milk. Chalk it up to the Cheeseman not being around to keep quality in line.

"We miss him," said Mike Rizzo, a childhood friend of DiNunzio's from East Boston, who was perched at the shop's tiny counter crowded with 15 kinds of provolone and two types of sopressata sausage, tucking into a foot-long Italian (with hots and onions).

"On a hot day like today, he'd be sitting outside on one of those benches, giving water to the old ladies," Rizzo said, waving his hand toward the window fronting Endicott Street. "Ask anyone in the neighborhood."

As it is, the Cheeseman is stuck in an East Boston apartment with his mother and sister, working the phone lines to distributors to keep a steady supply of cheese coming to his shop, said his lawyer, Anthony M. Cardinale. He is tired of agonizing over his case and plans to ask a judge to let him go back to Fresh Cheese.

Whether that judge will agree remains to be seen. After DiNunzio's arrest in May on a charge of trying to bribe a Big Dig official for a $6 million loan contract, he was ordered to stay way from Fresh Cheese. FBI agents testified that they had seen known members of La Cosa Nostra coming and going from the shop, and a judge said it would be too risky to allow him inside.

Baloney, said Cardinale.

"It's a business; that's all it is," Cardinale contended. "There's nothing going on except selling cheese and salami."

DiNunzio, according to the FBI, became a made man in the late 1990s and the underboss of the New England mafia four years ago.

While the feds say Fresh Cheese, which he opened eight years ago, is a mob hangout, Cardinale said it's DiNunzio's livelihood and his passion.

"He enjoys the business," Cardinale said. "He works hard at it. And obviously he wants it to succeed."

The shop can barely accommodate six patrons. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in intimacy.

Its walls are decorated with family snapshots (none of DiNunzio), an autographed photo of North End boxer Tony DeMarco defeating Vince Martinez at Fenway Park in 1956, and a postcard of the Virgin Mary. Its customers come mostly from the neighborhood; many local eateries send over a waiter to pick up packages of ricotta and mozzarella, delivered daily from Purity Cheese in Quincy.

"If they want a piece of this provolone like I have here now, if they say I want only half a pound, I get this piece, cut it right off the roll, and give them half a pound," said Bob Calestino, the longtime counterman who constantly presses free slices of cheese into the hands of customers.

"The sopressata," Calestino said, pointing to the sausage dangling over the counter. "They say, 'Could you skin it and slice it for us?' We skin it and slice it for them. They feel like it's a person to person, a one on one. They feel comfortable here."

His friend, Rizzo, credited DiNunzio for making the place welcoming. He recalled that when his mother died, DiNunzio and his brother, Anthony, were the first ones to pay their respects.

"He's a wonderful, wonderful human being," Rizzo said, "one of the most loving and docile people you'll ever meet."

The FBI, which recorded DiNunzio threatening to "throw this [expletive] kid off a roof" during the Big Dig sting, might disagree.

In any case, DiNunzio's shop delivers the goods; the prosciutto is savory and the sub a satisfying meal at $7.50.

Less inviting was the burrata, the fresh buffalo mozzarella ball wrapped in a leaf and imported from Italy, that smelled and tasted sour. A glance at the label showed it was past due.

Clearly, Fresh Cheese is strained. Asked about business, Calestino said, "Hey, we're in a recession."

Without the Cheeseman holding court on his bench outside, it has been even harder.

"We haven't run any numbers, but I know business is down since he's not there," Cardinale said. "With a lot of the customers, that personal touch helps."