The Last Supper

When I heard that Hilltop was closing, I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. It was like hearing that the Vatican was going out of business. How could this be happening? After all, Hilltop was a Boston institution. And, for us, an occasional dinner out during grad school and early marriage, that is, when we lived on the eastern part of the northshore world. Imagine: a drink, a steak meal and an OK tip – the tab for the both of us, $10. Total. The whole thing. 

I resolved to go for a last visit. Good sport Donna acquiesced and we went Friday night. Sunday was to be the restaurant’s last round up. Now, if my memory had gotten vague about why we stopped going when we moved to Salem, the route 114 corridor – a death march on wheels – through North Andover, Middleton (where all the rich hockey players live) and Poughkeepsie (at least it felt that way) quickly reminded us of just how unpleasant it is to get from Salem to Saugus. Next time, I’ll go by UPS – it will be more fun. 

We got there a little after six. The place was as crowded as ever I remember. But the crowd was a living death rattle. I heard people talking about a two hour wait, but Donna told me that the greeter had said four hours. Of course, I’m happy to say, he exaggerated since our wait turned out to be just three hours and 45 minutes. And, BTW, he was selling bottles of salad dressing and T-shirts with the Hilltop logo at a ridiculously high, budget-busting price.  

The lobby scene was a mix of a wake and a block party, the tempo of both approaching frenetic. Everyone was there for a common purpose and that gave license to spontaneous conversations with strangers who became flash friends. People shared memories and stories. Out the windows, you could see parents taking pictures of their kids on the cows, well, steers. 

The place was tired. It looked just the same as our last visit decades ago. As sales dwindled, they closed two dining rooms, Kansas City and Carson City. Time had passed Hilltop by. In its glory days, it served 8,000 meals in a day. Do the math with the population of all the dining rooms and it works. 

But human nature doesn’t quit. Every menu had been stolen – they were using Xeroxed copies. Plates with the logo had disappeared. A large brass scale and copper pots on the fireplace in Sioux City were somehow spirited out. Some pictures on the walls went missing. There was talk that they were being sold on e-bay. This was done not by souvenir hunters but by looters. 

Soon after our arrival, they closed the doors. They had enough people waiting to last till closing. It turns out that most of the people arriving after us decided against the wait, so we were literally (yes, I mean literally) the next-to-last people to be seated. Our server, Barbara, was a veteran and an incredibly warm and friendly person. I think she sized us up pretty quickly and we had a mutually pleasant experience. Memo to self: Don’t underestimate the importance of the server in defining how pleasant your meal will be. 

We were among the last ones to finish and the final scene was touching. Many of the people who had remained were former servers and bar help. There was a lot of hugging and wishes for a good future now that this chapter was closing. 

Even in its last hours (well, the butcher shop will stay open for a while longer), the Hilltop steak remains the ne plus ultra of steak-dom. You don’t need A-1 sauce; you needn’t disguise it at all. It’s hard to imagine any steak tasting better, being more tender, than Hilltop’s bare naked offering. And rare meant rare – they know what they’re doing. 

So that was my long and wistful excellent adventure. I can’t wait to show everybody my T-shirt.