He was everybody’s friend, even if few knew his real name. They called him Luigi. The entertainer. He added atmosphere to your dinner fare.

For more than 70 years, Louis Steve Belovich serenaded lovers, couples, families, newlyweds, classmates, co-workers and birthday celebrants.

In his prime, he wove gracefully in and out of dinner tables to offer a melody with your meal. He had style and flair.

His well-trained fingers skillfully raced up and down the ivories and buttons of an expensive Sano piano accordion.

His appearance was unique. Lace-edged tuxedo shirt, black beret and brocade vest. He looked to be European. Maybe French. Or Mediterranean.

For years he sported a handlebar ‘stache with waxed ends that curled around just like Snidely Whiplash.

He just seemed to be some kind of troubadour from a faraway land.

The pleasant, soft-spoken entertainer was featured at restaurants in the Lehigh Valley.

Over the past few decades he aligned himself with restaurateur Alfie Picone, playing at DiMaggio’s La Dolce Casa in Tamaqua.

He was a perfect fit for an Italian restaurant. He looked the part. And Luigi was the ultimate professional.

The one thing you’d never see was sheet music.

He played by ear. And could offer just about anything you requested.

I’ll never forget the first time I met him.

“What would you like to hear,” he asked.

I said, “How about Lady of Spain?” My request lacked imagination.

Accordion players are known for Lady of Spain. It’s generally regarded as the most often played accordion song. But it was the first thing that came to mind.

Truth be told, it didn’t matter what he played. I was grateful to simply spend time and absorb the aura of someone special.

Luigi was one of those individuals who enrich our lives simply by being there.

Maybe that’s because his own life was so rich and colorful.

He was born in 1931 in Wind Gap, spending early years in nearby Allentown during the Great Depression. He graduated from Central Catholic and went on to run a drywall business.

Luigi served his country, an Army veteran of the Korean War.

But music was his passion. He said he took some lessons but was largely self taught. And talented enough to be part of a musical group called the Marson Trio.

I believe he saw the accordion as a way to relax himself and others. His job was to serenade. Your job was to enjoy.

Luigi never cared to play wild, crazy songs. Yes, he could give you the Pennsylvania Polka. But it just wasn’t his bag.

He leaned toward romantic tunes, ballads, classics and inspirational melodies. Definitely show tunes and love songs.

His repertoire complemented an evening of dining and relaxation. It made for a special night with those you love. And that included Luigi.

“No one was more loved than Luigi when playing at DiMaggios,” said Diane Derr of Tamaqua.

She knew Luigi was someone very special.

“I spent many a times sitting with him when he was finished playing for the night. Every time I would see him we would reminisce about our time eating calamari.”

Everyone, it seems, has a special Luigi memory.

A few weeks ago I stopped at the restaurant on a Saturday night.

“Where’s Luigi,” I asked.

“Oh, he hasn’t been playing,” said Alfie. “We don’t see him. He’s in his 90s now and he just can’t do it anymore.”

Of course, I understood.

Time takes a toll. In recent years, I noticed that Luigi had slowed down. He no longer walked among the tables. Instead, he chose to sit and play in the center of the room but off to the side.

The accordion is very heavy. It grows even heavier as a musician gets older.

Deep down I recognized a telltale sign of mortality.

On the bleak, colorless winter day of Jan. 9, Luigi left us. He was 92. That’s a good, long life.

But we weren’t ready to give him up. Not even close.

“He touched a lot of hearts,” said Alfie.

It’s true. I know it. Because today those hearts are broken.