Remembering Henry Jost
This past March, I attended a memorial for dear Henry Jost, lost way too soon. Henry was larger-than-life, in stature and personality. He made friends everywhere he went, as demonstrated by the long distances some had traveled to be there. The night was full of laughter, lots of stories, and tears that showed how very beloved Henry was.
This was maybe the fifth memorial I’d been to in the past six months held in a restaurant or bar, rather than a church or funeral home, and I must say I approve of this trend. It’s especially fitting for those we’ve lost who were known for their membership is saloon society, the companionable gathering of strangers at a watering hole where conversation flows and new friends are easily made.
The event honoring Henry was held upstairs at, aptly, Henry’s Public House (formerly Bull Feeney’s) in Portland’s Old Port. There were comfortable couches, a small stage, and a full bar serving Henry’s signature cocktail: gin, tonic, and bitters on the rocks. The first round was “on the house.”
I also drank several negronis in Henry’s honor. He made me the first one I’d ever had, at Enoteca Athena, the fabulous Mediterranean restaurant he co-owned in Brunswick with his dear friend Carla Eastman.
I’d met Henry years before, when he was bartending at an overpriced and overrated steakhouse in the Old Port. “Eighty percent of the customers went there to see Henry,” a fellow bartender at the memorial told me.
I hadn’t seen Henry in years when I heard he’d begun working in Brunswick, so I stopped in to surprise him. When Henry saw me, his face broke into a huge smile, he came out from behind the bar and gave me an enormous, exuberant hug that felt like he was lifting me off the ground. That’s the kind of man Henry was.
He brought me a complimentary glass of prosecco that night, and then made me my first negroni — a delicious blend of gin, vermouth and Campari, with an aromatic orange peel rubbed on the rim and dropped in to perfume the drink. Then dish after dish of Italian- and Greek-inspired small plates started appearing on the wooden bar: risotto, bruschetta, arancini, house-made pasta and inspired roasted vegetables.
The food at the memorial was similarly inspired: bountiful platters of smoky baba ghanoush, artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers, blistered pita triangles, chicken sliders. All delicious and terrific for soaking up all the gin and Old Fashioneds flowing that night. More than a few people waxed rhapsodic about Henry’s Old Fashioned. He taught so many people what a truly great cocktail can be. A young man Henry trained at his Brunswick bar quipped, “I looked up to him — literally!”
I went to the memorial just to show my presence, figuring I’d know, at most, one or two people. I’ve long been of the opinion that if you’re wondering whether you should attend a remembrance for someone you only slightly knew, you already have the answer: yes, you should! I needn’t have been surprised to see so many familiar faces from Portland’s hospitality industry, of which I was once a part.
I ran into P., a bartender friend my late ex-husband David Geary and I used to chat with at dinner every Saturday night for years at a West End bistro. David was a creature of habit who deeply appreciated professional bartenders who remembered how he liked his Hendrick’s and tonic: with a splash of grapefruit juice and a wedge — never a slice — of lime, no goddamn paper straw, and keep ’em comin’! More than a few attendees shared with me their vision of David and Henry meeting again in heaven for more belly laughs and tall tales.
Everyone spoke so warmly about Henry, and many glasses were raised. The gathering evoked such a strong and spontaneous feeling of camaraderie that I offered my guest room to a stranger from Stonington, a dear friend of Henry’s who was the first to speak at the microphone that night.
I noticed a tall, dark man in a long black coat talking to no one: the longtime owner of the Indian restaurant next door to Enoteca Athena. Come his turn to speak, he haltingly began, “My English no good … but Henry super man. Every time, smiling face. Every time. Super man. Very happy, always. … I keep him all the time in my heart.” Loud applause followed, and many handshakes and thumps on the back. His English was just fine.
I left with a fresh appreciation for Maine’s saloon society, the food-and-beverage industry that’s more like one big family. Henry, you were such a large part of this family, deeply loved, truly missed, and never forgotten.
