It was always there.

Like Les Deux Magots in Paris, Bailey’s Ice Cream Parlor in Boston, it was always there … until it wasn’t.

It was as iconic as Al Corey’s Music shop, (Al rarely ate there) the Levines’ Haberdashery, the Two Cent Bridge, among memorable landmarks.

Once upon a time The Last Unicorn was where divorce lawyers met other divorce lawyers, and ex-wives peeked in before entering.

There were other places to eat, of course, but its location at the front of Silver Street, just off Main Street, was close to all the shops; the banks and gift shops were steps away.

When “outside” happened, it sported flowers on the edges, pretty waiters and umbrellas and the strongest iced tea.

The old Morning Sentinel building was just across the street from “Restaurant Row,” where reporters and editors could pop in and out for a beer.

The then-manager of the Sentinel, editor Bob Moorhead, who preferred Steve’s restaurant and bar, would sit with me, a new columnist in town, by the window and point at some workers on a roof across the street.

“See those guys?” he’d say. “Those are Gerry’s people.” (Reporter and now famous author Gerry Boyle.)

Colby professors liked the Unicorn for lunch while former Sen. George Mitchell lunched with his sister Barbara.

Once upon the same time, the very quiet Rick Gallup and his glamorous wife, Honor Stanley, owned it, along with a nice clothing boutique up on The Concourse.

The Unicorn was there when Kay and I stepped off the Greyhound bus in August of 1984, when that was the bus stop.

Barbara Joseph worked there when we walked in the door with my yellow cockatiel. It was one room with a few tables and one bar and rest room. I lived at that bar for many years.

I don’t remember who cooked then, but I remember the day when Joe Plumstead, a happy ghost with unruly hair and crooked smile, took over the stoves, and his wife, Michelle, made the place her personal bistro.

Joe was the invisible man like a Parisian “fantome” who hid out in the basement cutting lettuce, picking steaks and becoming a legend.

But it was his wife, Michelle, a bigger-than-life presence, a dramatic Lautrec hostess in wild colored kimonos who broke windows with her booming laugh, who was the star.

Michelle, a figure from a Renoir painting, worked the bar, bagged take-outs and made perfect martinis. She was famous for hanging her artist sister’s paintings on all the walls. She is my friend.

That was 39 years ago. Reporter Amy Calder reminds us that the original owners, Rick Gallup and Honor Stanley, sold it to the Plumsteads in 2000 and moved to Puerto Rico, where Donald Trump threw roles of paper towels to the survivors of the hurricane, when all they wanted was water and the lights to go on.

Michelle Plumstead hung 15 of my paintings on those walls as a favor, and one man, a stranger, liked them and bought 14 of them one afternoon.

Fred Ouelette, a fine chef, dropped in for a bit with his “Proper Pig” Café on Common Street, and has done well. Good timing.

Then John Piccurio and Jesse came along with delicate catfish and made the place their own until COVID came to town and restaurants began to suffer.

The good times slowed down for the boys and soon, the venerable Unicorn rode away.

Sunday morning, somewhere deep in the dark, something happened. A spark, they say, ignited a bunch of greasy rags, and when dawn broke, The Last Unicorn became a smoky, charred ruin.

The property owners say they will rebuild. How does one rebuild a legend? One brick at a time.

What more can I say?

Sorry for our loss.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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