So Nicholas's sister had a commemoration of his life,
focusing as one might expect on food and wine, at Ithaki
Modern Mediterranean in Ipswich, a restaurant of which he
had been fond. I took the MBTA to my friends' John and
Irene's (1 hour, 2.8 miles), wherefrom John drove us up
(25 minutes, 28 miles). We arrived half an hour early, there
having been no traffic delay.

The space is airified and enlarged and improved since when
he'd take me to eat here at the bar. Actually, the last time
we'd gone here together, the renovation had been done, but
I didn't see the extent of it until this day - we took over
the back room, which I don't recall having seen before.

The waitstaff very kindly allowed us the run of the bar,
but we refrained for a good long time until I gave up
and had a glass of okay but unmemorable Argentine Malbec.
Oddly, the whites, which Nicholas didn't favor, were a
notch better, the La Crema Chardonnay and a New Zealand
Sauvignon Blanc, I think Stoneleigh. Gradually people
filtered in; there was to have been a scattering of the
ashes at sea, but a monster storm scuttled that idea (I
wasn't invited and probably wouldn't have gone anyway,
given my relation with boats and the ocean0. Instead they
went on a tour of Nicholas's house, which has been totally
renovated, and which I'd have liked to have seen.

There were 3 tables of 8, with one no-show: our table had
Mahri the hostess and her husband Bill, their daughter
Aimee and her husband Michael, Frank and his wife, and me.
I hadn't seen these people in a fair amount of time -
Aimee I'd encountered a couple years ago at the shop she
manages when I was looking for news of Nicholas's
condition; before that I'd not seen her since she was a
teenage greeter at the Black Cow restaurant, where we used
to go between shows at North Shore Music Theatre (including
at least a couple runs of Fiddler). Frank had been at a
fundraiser for Collage New Music a couple decades ago, the
occasion of the opening of that dead bottle of Petrus that
I have discussed here (I put in an offer of $250 that I could
not afford and was relieved when I was outbid, the winner
paying 900) and before that a few years before at a dinner
at the Black Goose for Bill Kraft.

Passed hors d'oeuvres, one apiece allotted for the expensive
ones, two for the grape leaves and spanakopitas.

Kataifi shrimp were appropriately jumbo and fresh, the
shredded filo crunchy, but that meant that the shrimp were
overcooked.

Vegan grape leaves were stuffed with rice and ground walnuts
standing in for meat, actually a pretty successful idea.

I was given what was represented as a bacon-wrapped date,
very hot, someone said. This was not a lie, as far as it went,
but the very hot should have tipped me off. I took a bite, and
molten goat cheese spilled out all over. As this was polite
company, I munched it down and thought of England, focusing on
the interplay of the salty smoky bacon and the sweet dates and
trying to ignore the overlay of taste of death in my mouth.

I didn't try the spinach pie.

Main choices were roast chicken, broiled salmon, or moussaka.
Everyone at our table had the last. It was a large crock,
possibly near a quart, of food - a fluffy bechamel, lots of
nutmeg, eggplant, lots of a very fine (in both senses) lamb
mince, and potato slices on the bottom. It was quite good, and
the potatoes didn't do any particular harm, having soaked up
the reddened lamb fat and thus becoming almost tasty. People
ate about half of theirs, despite its being tasty, but Mahri
looked over at my serving, of which I'd eaten a good two
thirds, and said, Michael has done very well, come on, Michael,
you can do it, and so I did (feeling a bit logy for half a day
after). I was put into an altered state of consciousness and
apparently spent an hour exchanging tall tales and pledges to
get together more often with Frank, when I felt a hand on my
shoulder - John, telling me it was time to get a move on. In
the couple minutes before he could fetch Irene, I found a
galaktoboureko and stuffed it in my gob. It was excellent
and deserved more attention than I could give it.
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