There's no doubt that some of the things that Dubliners have always liked most about Bewley's contributed to the imminent sad demise of that cherished institution.
As Maeve Binchy points out elsewhere in this edition, "as a student we could make one cup of coffee last an hour and a half", and the professional dawdlers amongst us could occupy one of those fine marble tables at the price of little more than a sticky bun for hours on end. The idea of making way for paying customers scarcely impinged and no-one was going to ask us to move on. Profit, it seemed, was not on the menu.
Those were less frantic days before the Celtic Tiger, days in which, one fondly imagined, the return per square foot was less important to Victor Bewley than providing a warm refuge for all the flotsam and jetsam of the city - the hung-over student, the harassed shopping mother with kids in tow, the dishevelled down-and-out, the office worker snatching a cigarette break, the out-of-work actor poring over The Irish Times crossword, the young lovers, the oul' ones on a day out in town. And, after all, his father Ernest had nearly bankrupted the family firm in the art déco refitting of the Grafton Street premises in 1927 when he commissioned Harry Clarke's fine stained glass windows (whose fate now is a matter of real public concern). In more recent years Bewley's has also been much more than café, playing host to art and theatre.
The company's rescue takeover in 1986 by Mr Patrick Campbell would lead to a €12 million upgrade of the restaurants, but cumulative losses of €4 million have been the final straw. Mr Campbell clearly brought a more focused approach to the bottom line and more professional management as well as new hope. But perhaps a lack of empathy or understanding of a changing market led to a too-heavy reliance on the old product lines - it is strange indeed that a city that has never drunk more coffee cannot sustain such an institution. Indeed, how have the great cafés in cities like Paris and Vienna not only survived but flourished?
Yet, whatever the reason for the restaurants' sad closures, they will remain indelibly imprinted on the memories of so many Dubliners: the smell of coffee that wafted into the street, and inside, on a wet winter's day, the steaming coats and the coal fires in their massive mahogany fireplaces, the bentwood chairs with their built-in parcel shelves, the cosy booths, the rattle of crockery, the brown bread, barmbracks, and mince pies, and the friendliest of staff. The closures are a bitter blow to the restaurants' 234 staff but we are all losers too.