I read an essay in a magazine (Scientific American?) years ago titled, if I recall correctly, "The Death of a Good Man", where the author, an archeologist working in Africa, wrote about the manager of the American-chain hotel nearest to his research camp. The archeologist would take a monthly, long drive in to the hotel so he could enjoy some a glass of whiskey in clean surroundings and to catch up on world news.
The hotel's manager, was an obese, intelligent, gregarious man who had been sent to Europe to be educated by his village. The archeologist enjoyed conversations with this manager and liked him.
They had a ritual: He'd measure the manager's blood pressure, which was always dangerously high, and caution him to stop eating the highly processed food that the hotel served and to lose weight, otherwise he would die young. The man always replied that he needed to eat the hotel's food to make sure it was of sufficient quality, and besides, the hotel's quests didn't want to be guests of a thin, severe man, but rather a fat, jolly manager. The manager was a hard worker, always under stress, and constantly taking antacids.
The essay was a eulogy to this "local boy who did good", who sacrificed himself, in a way, to help his local economy.