by Peter Loewer

Storekeep, Cityfella, Mrs. Storekeep, and the Curmudgeon were standing about the new cigarette display left on the counter by a gum-chewing tobacco salesman and talked about an industry that produces a product that ultimately kills yet still sells itself by various salutes to sophistication.

When the talk turned to outlawing smoking in most restaurants, Cityfella mentioned, in passing, a new restaurant opening in Atlanta. “Their menu design actually was cited in one of those slick magazines we get at my office, this one is called Graphitico: USA. It’s one of those industry journals like Baker’s Weekly, Insecticide Monthly or The Georgia Law Review, only this one is so slick the pages are hard to open because your fingers slide off the paper.

“This restaurant was listed as a wine and specialty cheese type of bistro with a background mix of food inspired by 1930’s movie classics and 19th century operettas. It’s called Tantalus.”

“Tantalus?” asked Curmudgeon.

“Right,” answered Cityfella. “It pointed out that the menu design and name were based on the mythological story of the Phrygian King but stopped way short of actually telling the story. But it conjured up some wonderful images of a place to eat, especially during the present hard times.”

“I remember that myth from grade schools, “said Mrs. Storekeep, thereby giving away her age, “and it seems to be a silly name for a place to eat.”

“What does it mean?” asked Storekeep.

“Tantalus,” answered Cityfella, “was a character out of a Greek myth who—because of his heinous crimes—was left standing in a pool of water that came up to his neck. Overhead, just out of reach, dangled a bunch of grapes and whenever he managed to just about get a grape in his mouth, the whole bunch pulled back. If he tried to drink, the water flowed away from his lips.”

“I can see it now,” said Curmudgeon. “Impeccably attired waiters coming up to tables surrounded by glamorous people, each holding rays of wonderfully prepared foods—and just as a customer reaches for a tasty morsel, the waiter yanks it out of reach. Plates overflowing with petit fours carried by comely waitresses who toss the sweets into a far corner just as you choose the one that appeals to you most.”

“In fact the game could be wonderful,” offered Cityfella, “with whole tables being pulled away just as a party of diners settle into their seats.”

“And don’t forget the water,” said Mrs. Storekeep. “It’s the perfect ploy during a drought. Each glass being served has a tiny magnetic toy in the bottom and little magnetic fish would move the glasses out of your reach to teach you to respect the water.”

“The point you are making,” said Curmudgeon, “is the stupidity of the management in choosing a name that insults your intelligence but goes over—if you will excuse the expression—the head of nine out of ten people who dine out—anywhere.”

They all nodded their head and signified yes.

“However,” noted Curmudgeon “when the time came to settle the bill the Tantalus routine would most certainly not be used.”

And with that he stepped over to the frozen food bin and pulled out a package of fish-sticks, a can of orange juice, a pint of chocolate ice cream, some French fries, and a pound of butter.

“I haven’t had the luxury of eating out since the first oil embargo and most of my dining begins here at the store . . .”

“And,” interrupted Cityfella, “some of it is so bad you wish that the myth of Tantalus could sometimes apply to this store—well, not with the orange juice or the ice cream but the fish-sticks are not what they once were.”

Tantalus sounds like the name of a dance to me,” said Storekeep.

“That’s the Tarantula,” said Cityfella.