On a recent mid-June evening, a half-dozen servers, spiffily attired in starched white shirts and bowties, threaded through picnic tables covered in white tablecloths, and Lillian Reid was asking Louis Chiarella if he’d like another soda. “Sure,” said Chiarella, amid lively music in the temperate late-spring air outside West Haven’s Surfside Apartments. Someone set a plate of baked ziti before him. “I could get used to this.” He grinned. An Army…