An absence at Anthony's
The end isn't supposed to come this way, not for one of the city's icons. It's supposed to be a lap around Fenway Park or a motorcade out of town or at least a toast and some applause.
But it came without ceremony for Anthony Athanas, gradually, as Ernest Hemingway once wrote of going broke, and then suddenly.
It was a Sunday morning a while ago. He was where he always used to be, which was at his restaurant, Anthony's Pier 4, plodding through his daily routine. His eyesight had been failing for months. He had told his son Michael that it was as if someone were holding a circle before him; he could see along the periphery, but not straight ahead.
Regardless, even at 91, he showed up at the restaurant by 7:30 every morning and stayed until the last diners left after 11 at night. Even after he could no longer seat people, he stood at the door and greeted them as they came in.
But on that Sunday morning, as he climbed the back stairs to his office, he must have missed a step. Anthony Athanas fell and banged his head. He's been in and out of hospitals ever since.
Just like that, the career of Boston's most famous restaurateur, a man who played host to Hollywood entertainers and US presidents, an immigrant who for years ran the busiest dining room in the nation, came to a jolting end.
Over the weekend, three of his sons, who now operate the business, sat in the sun-splashed main dining room of Pier 4, laughing warmly and reminiscing in that way that only siblings can. There was the morning their father flew to Palm Beach on a rare vacation. Hours later, he turned around and was back in his restaurant by 7 o'clock that night.
When Anthony opened his first restaurant in Lynn in 1937, he would seat people, take their order, and yell it back into the empty kitchen as if there were someone there. Then he would run back and cook the food himself, they said.
He was a pioneer on the Boston waterfront when it was nothing more than a collection of slippery old rail lines embedded into cobblestone streets. He opened Pier 4 a few days before JFK was assassinated in 1963 and never left. Customers followed in droves. They came for the harbor views. They came for the huge lobsters. They came the best wine list around. And they came to see Anthony, as much a part of the restaurant as the yawning windows and heavy front door.
In his heyday, Anthony served upward of 3,000 patrons on a summer Saturday, an inconceivable number in the fine dining business today. People waited 2 1/2 hours for a table. In his later years, the stories of Anthony's curmudgeonly ways became legendary. He was accused of bypassing young families for businessmen. He lost the famous suit over Fan Pier.
But less frequently told are the tales of how he would incite tables of Japanese tourists into fits of laughter with an inside joke or how he painstakingly inspected his enormous kitchen every morning before anyone else arrived.
Staff stayed for the longer part of forever. Asked when they last hired a bartender for the main lounge, the brothers laughed in unison. "Twenty-five years," one of them answered.
Younger chefs remain in awe. Lydia Shire is known to visit Anthony's on Mother's Day. "He was a mentor for me," said Jasper White, Boston's acclaimed seafood chef. "He is the consummate old-school professional, standing in his restaurant every day making sure the food is right. He never got tired."
These days, the heavy chandeliers in the 400-seat dining room are gone, replaced by track lighting. The dark wood beams and walls have been painted white. The famous house cheese dip is served only in the bar. The place actually looks fresh and feels nice.
But there's no Anthony. He's at home, occasionally visiting his Swampscott restaurant for lunch.
Yet another important piece of the city has faded into the realm of the past. Progress is good -- time marches on and all that -- but these things can't happen, don't happen, without a sense of loss.
Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com. 