Walk past the fountain, through the carved wooden door.

Cruise past the long line of customers, beyond the pink neon "telefono" sign.

Take a last look at the Christmas lights, the Sicilian diorama, the stuffed animals, the faux parrot, the dangling plastic grapes.

Two steps up and one mirror-lined flight down, between the bar and the basement banquet room of his aging steakhouse, you'll find Sebastiano "Yano" Caniglia.

Known almost everywhere simply as Mister C, the 83-year-old wears his dyed-brown hair with a stylish swoosh, parted to one side. His big eyes, behind metal-framed glasses, are deep pools of chocolate that hint at the smoldering glances he surely cast at Mary Marino 60-some years ago at a Santa Lucia Festival, long before she was Mrs. C.

He's not particularly tall or plump or thin. His shoulders slump just a little in the bright cerulean blue cardigan that Mrs. C made him wear when she learned the North Omaha Commercial Club was going to honor them tonight.

"He was just going to wear his work clothes," she explains with disapproval to a cluster of ladies just out of his earshot. They're here for the club's dinner and farewell to the soon-to-close Mister C's Steakhouse.

The crowd includes a sprinkling of dignitaries — a state senator, a public service commissioner, a former mayor, a city councilman. Most are more formally dressed than you'd expect for a Tuesday night dinner. Heels and hose. Suit coats and belts. Attire befitting Mass or a wake.

An organizer pins a gardenia on petite Mrs. C — who, like her man, still sports dark hair and dough-soft skin and seems far younger than her 83 years. She wears a flowing black blouse with red polka dots, a black vest and black slacks.

They could have retired after a few good years at the drive-in they opened right here in 1953. But Mister C had sky-high dreams about sit-down dining.

Mrs. C bows her head to look at photos people hand her, sometimes still attached to their wallets and checkbooks.

"Oh, my," she says with a sweetness that belies the resilience that's kept her back straight and Mister C and his books in line all these years. "They're both handsome boys."

When the organizer mentions a boutonniere, Mrs. C says matter-of-factly: "Mister C won't wear a corsage."
Mrs. C gets his gardenia, too.

One by one, diners step up to pay their respects. Their last names sing of Omaha's Catholic churches, of North High School, of the Florence and Little Italy neighborhoods: Davis, Lemen, Fascianella. Buda, Boyer, Boyle. Moser, Harpster, Pistone. Keller, Kruse, Custard, Mann, Morrison, McCaslin.

A willowy man volunteers his name. Mister C peers up at his face, then lifts the man's shirt enough to reveal his belt.

The man grins. When he and his twin brother worked here some 20 years ago, they wore different belts. That's how Mister C would tell them apart. Sometimes they'd swap belts in the restroom just to confuse him.

The man shakes his head: "I forgot all about the belts."

But Mister C didn't.

"Oh, bless you, bless you," a woman says, clasping Mister C's hand. "Oh, I hate to see you leave!"

"I don't want to leave," says Mister C.

But in so many ways, it is time.

Before the Caniglias announced last November that they were closing, business had slowed. Smaller families and friends who trickled in weren't enough to keep this big place open. And he and Mary are more tired and aching than they appear.
"But you've still got a lotta songs in you," the woman says, winking.

One by one, the guests dish up fried ravioli and marinara, snag a beer or a glass of wine and soak up the '70s time capsule that is the banquet room: The kaleidoscopic carpet of red, orange, yellow and black that covers the walls (still bright) and floors (muted from wear). The mirrors wherever the carpet is not. The quilted red-leather doors. The red-and-white-checked tablecloths. The black-steel frame chairs with orange vinyl seats.

A councilman conveys well wishes from Rep. Lee Terry and says the governor has made the Caniglias admirals in the Nebraska Navy. He reads a proclamation from the mayor and City Council declaring Sept. 18, 2007, "Mister C and Mary Caniglia Day" in Omaha.

Mister C thanks everybody "for making me feel so important."

A minister offers a blessing. Someone introduces a short video on the place and says there are extra copies on DVD if anyone is interested.

"I am!" shouts Mister C, still king of the punch line. The room erupts in laughter.

As the video plays, Mrs. C sits with friends. Mister C stands near the edge of the room. A longtime former waitress puts an arm around his shoulder.

Two waitresses dart out a side door: "I gotta get outta here," one says. "I'm gonna cry."

The video ends to applause. All eyes are on Mister C. He slips out the side door — not to hide tears, but to turn the lights back on.

Someone sends a makeshift guest book around, asking people to sign it "so Mister and Mrs. C will know who was here."

"I'll remember," Mister C says. His voice is softer and lower than it once was and he moves a little slower, but he's sharp and enthusiastic.

Working the room, he shakes hands, pats shoulders, stoops over tables to hear and throws his head back with a laugh and a "Ha!"

When waitresses bring salads and dinner rolls, Mister C sneaks into the banquet kitchen. He grabs a few french fries, tucks them in his mouth and asks if they can do baked potatoes instead.

"No way to do 117 baked potatoes on the spur of the moment, Dad," says David, the exasperated youngest son, a white blur rushing by with a metal pan full of steaks.

Mister C slips on disposable gloves and lays out heavy ceramic plates in batches of five or six. He puts a steak and a handful of fries on each plate.

When someone wonders why he's not out there enjoying his party, he says: "This is what I'm supposed to be doing."

A plate crashes to the floor and wobbles around. "Ah!" he shouts, his foot stopping it with a clomp. "I never drop plates," he says. "Dammit!"

But the next moment he's singing — "badeeda, badeeda, doodadoodadoo!" — and shouting into the intercom.

"We gotta get more fries down here. I need more fries," he says, his voice echoing in the upstairs kitchen.

A waitress, returning with an undercooked steak, sets it under the lights.

"More fire?" Mister C complains.

"Well, it's the only one," the waitress says.

"There shouldn't be any," Mister C says, his voice like a wagging finger.

When the plates are all out, he heads back toward his empty chair. He's stopped by diners and familiar faces no less than seven times. He pokes a fork at a salad and eats a roll while Mrs. C finishes her steak.

Outside, rain pours on the now-full parking lot and the deserted but somehow still festive garden with its orange, yellow, green and blue globe lights.

Upstairs, rain leaks through the roof in places, trickling onto shoulders and into a red plastic bucket in the hallway. Mister and Mrs. C's eldest son, Larry, rushes around the various dining rooms, preparing tables for the customers streaming in, with and without reservations.

At 60, Larry has worked here nearly his whole life — since he started cooking french fries at age 10. His expression says he can't wait to be done.

Downstairs, there's no rain, no thunder, just the chatter and clatter of diners and memories.

One woman recalls bringing her mother in a wheelchair to Mister C's years ago. "It was not accessible," she says. "So Mister C put in an elevator. For my mother."

One woman tells of pulling into Mister C's, back when it was the Royal Boy drive-in, with some cherry cider from a local orchard. "Order, please!" said a voice from the speaker. "Five cups of ice!" said the driver. Mister C delivered the ice himself to see what sort of beverage the teens might be sipping.

A woman who'd waited tables at Mister C's for 25 years talks of her love-hate relationship with Mister C, how people had to keep the two apart when she was reworking the menus and they were butting heads. "He was the best boss and the best person in the whole wide world," she says. "I loved him like a dad."

Mister C turns his head away, swallows hard, but doesn't cry.

Others recall packing the Royal Boy every weekend during high school, breaking for rumbles in Miller Park, shooing the Benson High kids from North High turf and stealing Mister C's root beer mugs.

Mister C admits he thought he had outsmarted the thieves. He'd tag the bottom of each tray with the number of root beers ordered, to make sure carhops got all the mugs back. But the kids caught on and replaced his tags with their own and made off with more than a few mugs.

"That's why I'm still working at 83!" says Mister C.

There are cracks about Mister C's singing ability and a plea: "Can we have a song?"

Mister C takes the microphone and belts one out in Italian: "Oh! Ma-Ma!" The audience claps along. He ends with a finger in the air and, like he's his own backup band, a final flourish: "Bom BOOM!"

A retired dentist with similar Sicilian roots talks of the hard work and sacrifices of anyone so married to his business. Mrs. C nods. Mister C confesses how, even on his wedding day, he put on baker's whites to help his dad between the ceremony and the reception.

He talks a little of regret, of missing football games and even the births of some of his children to keep the dream that was Mister C's alive.

One woman recalls her wedding, with 247 guests and a 16-piece orchestra, in the romantic garden.

Others thank the Caniglias for childhood joys — a different balloon animal for every kid, and sometimes two for the birthday boy, trips upstairs to pick out a toy from the "toy room" at Christmas, and room enough for the kids to run around.

"We used to come here all the time," diners say, again and again.

More than once, Mister C interrupts them.

"Used to!" he parrots, with that verbal finger wag.

Though it's been nice these last 10 months, as people crowded in for one last meal, it's only an illusion of the landmark's heyday.

The building is showing its wear — the leaks, the musty smell, the burned-out lights and faded carpet. His boys don't care to keep it going. And he and Mrs. C are, after all, 83.

There's no turning back now. The deal to sell is done, the auctions planned.

Afterward, they'll make marinara and salad dressing for wholesale. Still, he's not sure where his place will be when there is no Mister C's.

"Used to," he chides, a little sad, a little angry. "Used to."

But give him a moment.

And listen.

Just a little off-key, he's singing: "Thanks for the memories."