The Globe — after a bit of front-paging — printed most of the story on Locke-Ober’s closing next to the obituary page.

“Just right,’’ said I, not sure whether this was merely the death of a great old institution or of something more, the end of a way of life; those silver tureens; the waiters who remembered us and vice versa; the Manhattans and JFK chowder and wiener schnitzel, all at the edge of perfection; and the naked Victorian nymph in her wall portrait, looking no more exciting than half the statues in the Vatican museum.