photos/Jessie Banhazl
Bob Giuliana
Age: 91
Hometown: Boston, MA
Bar of Choice: DiMillo’s on the Water
Drink of Choice: Tonic and bitters
“I have a friend I’ve never seen / He hides his head inside a dream / Someone should call him and see if he can come out / Try to lose the down that he’s found”
— Neil Young, “Only Love Can Break Your Heart,” released Oct. 1970
Opened in 1982, DiMillo’s on the Water is a Portland mainstay. Drawn in by the fresh seafood, beautiful views and friendly staff, more than a few locals are faithful regulars. On any given day, sitting at the enormous, nautical-themed bar, you’ll find one of them: 91-year-old Bob Guiliana.
Bob was recommended to us because of his wit and his epic, multi-faceted life. “I’ve known Bob for twenty-five years!” exclaimed bar manager Lisa Braugher. “He’s always full of spirit, and all the bartenders absolutely love him. He’s a very intelligent young man.” Let’s meet Bob!
When did you start coming to DiMillo’s?
I’ve been coming here since 1982. I was managing the wharf next door when Tony [DiMillo] brought the boat in. I was running that wharf temporarily, and we bumped elbows because Tony was an expansive man. We’d never actually met, but we got into a legal thing about the water and who’s doing what to whom over there. He backed right off because he was trying something and not getting away with it, but that was Tony. Since we had never really met, I thought, Oh, now I’ve got an enemy in town.
Anyway, I’m on an airplane flying down to Florida to visit my parents and here comes Tony walking down the aisle. I thought, I hope he doesn’t recognize me, but he comes down, stops and says, “Are you Giuliana?” He says, “You know that thing we did with the lawyers and the water? Good job.” Then we became friends, and I became a customer at his restaurant.
What do you like most about DiMillo’s?
I love the DiMillo family. I think Tony DiMillo brought Portland back to life in ’82 when he brought this boat in. Before that, Portland was dead. Before the St. Lawrence Seaway opened up, all the grain came through from the Midwest to here, because we’re the closest port to Europe. Then it all went up the St. Lawrence Seaway straight to Europe and didn’t come here anymore. There were all these empty wharves and empty buildings where they used to pack sardines. But Tony had the chutzpah to bring the boat in.
What’s kept you coming back all these years?
When you have staff that’s been around for decades, that says a lot about the ownership and management. They’re the real deal. I keep hearing “tourist trap” about DiMillo’s, but Jesus, some of those “tourists” have lived in Maine all their lives and are trapped by the staff and the atmosphere [laughs]. I’m certainly on a first-name basis with all the bartenders, and I’m greeted like I’m on the show Cheers. The staff has a sense of humor, they’re polite, and it’s real.
We heard you’re a sailor. Can you tell us more about that?
I grew up in Boston, but my father built a summer place in Billerica, Massachusetts, and there I learned how to kayak, then to canoe. I heard about an opportunity to do a little bit of sailing in the service. I was stationed in North Germany. There was a wonderful lake there, and some of my buddies showed me how to sail.
I had a thirty-two-foot wooden sailboat that I bought when I was living in Manhattan. When I moved to Maine, I bought a thirty-foot fiberglass boat, so I was very serious about sailing and learned you’ll die if you go out there and don’t know what you’re doing. A friend I made up here wanted to start a sailing center and wanted me to be co-owner. One day, Tony comes down with a couple of young guys by the earlobe and he says, “Teach these jokers how to sail.” That’s how I met his kids.
How did you end up in Maine?
I came to Maine in 1970. I was just getting out of the film business and wanted to be in a nice, calm, bucolic state, but it turned out to be anything but calm. I had this wharf up in Georgetown, Maine, that I built. I didn’t know how to build a bookcase, but I built this wharf and it’s still there! I was a lobster dealer and surrounded by mussels and sea urchins, neither of which was there a market for. I was the first person to smoke mussels on this continent, in 1973. I made a smoker out of a refrigerator and figured out how to do it. I put them in jars with oil, and that’s how it’s still done today. They were delicious. I went out of that business because I sent them around the country, but the chefs said, “They’re so ugly, no one is going to buy them.” I was also milling, drying, and selling seaweed to the Midwest —way ahead of my time.
What kind of films did you make?
Mostly documentaries. I’m still doing it, actually. I’m involved in helping with a documentary about myself because I know the subject very well. I’m also working on some documentary-ish projects. I’ve lived in a lot of places and gotten into a lot of trouble as a filmmaker. For example, surrounded by Eritrean revolutionaries with guns, attacks from hyenas, and drug dealers in Mexico who tried to push me into a ring with a bull because they wanted to honor me — to pieces. I was hired by the Emperor Haile Selassie to make a documentary. I traveled a lot.
We heard you also worked in television.
I was with Merv Griffin for three and a half years. He offered me a job as a producer of Jeopardy! but I turned it down. I was Merv’s cameraman. He offered that job to a cameraman! I had already been to Africa and other places [to film documentaries], but he didn’t know of that background. But he saw something in me. I later left the Griffin show and started in a new film division called Paradigm. I worked there for a full year and left it to come up here and relax, which didn’t happen.
Mike Wadleigh, the director of the documentary Woodstock, came up to visit me here in Maine. Neil Young wrote a song called “Only Love Can Break Your Heart.” Neil Young and I shared a best friend, and this friend, Larry Johnson, told me that Neil wrote the song about me. I had never heard it, because I wasn’t a Neil Young fan. People think it’s about a romance, but it’s not. Larry told Neil about the whole story of me leaving the film company, which was not fun for me — it was heartbreaking — and then he wrote the song about it.
And you’re a writer, too. Is that correct?
I do a lot of writing at the bar. I wrote a lot of documentary scripts. Back in the day, when I came to Portland, I was trying to figure out a way to make a living besides sailing. I started a mortgage company and wrote a book. The last few years here, I’ve become more serious about writing. Now I’m writing and researching some philosophical things. At ninety-one, death is around the corner, there’s no question about it. I’m probing my thoughts about death while studying old Greek and Roman philosophers. I don’t have it exactly, but one of the philosophers said, “Why should I fear death? If I am, death isn’t. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear something in whose presence I will never be?” I find that very comforting because one morning I’ll wake up dead — ha.
What else are you up to?
I am the guide of a motorcoach tour of Portland, Kennebunk and the lighthouses. I’m always bringing up my age on the tours because it gives me a chance to do a schtick which entertains them and me. People on the tour always say that I don’t look like I’m in my nineties, and I say that I have a secret, and they all lean in. I say, “I don’t usually share it, but today I will. I have a very good friend who’s a taxidermist!” That usually brings down the house. I also say that the bottom line for living to be ninety is: don’t die. The funnier I’ve become, the bigger the tips have got, which is great for my vanity.
Looking back, do you think of yourself as a success?
I’ve done a lot in life, but I don’t have a lot of money, because I never cared about the money. I mean, I made money. I had the Porsche, and the thirty-two-foot yawl, but I was never interested in money. I think that’s significant, because when you get into the money thing, it can quickly take over.
How do you stay so active at ninety-one?
Have you interviewed a teetotaler yet? I’m close to that. I have maybe one draft a week. Otherwise, it’s tonic and bitters. I’ve had enough alcohol in my life, and I’m taking it easy on my body. I’m a pescatarian. I gave up meat, poultry and tobacco in 1964. I’m in pretty good health. I go to the gym a few times a week. When I get on the treadmill they bring out a gurney, which is a little concerning — ha-ha. After my first week there they said, “Bob, when you get on the treadmill, you should really do it standing up.” You’ve got to have a sense of humor if you’re my age. But at ninety-one and a half, you don’t buy green bananas.
Cheers to one year of The Regulars! We’ve been having a blast meeting dynamic people from all walks of life and showcasing the bars and restaurants in our community that make Maine such a great place to be. As bartenders and bar regulars ourselves, we cherish this opportunity to present the column to you every month as a reflection on bar culture and its benefits to those who imbibe. We’ve heard some wild stories, and drank a fair amount of alcohol along the way in the service of journalism. We’re always looking for new people to showcase, so please reach out if you have someone to recommend by e-mailing theregularsmaine@gmail.com.
