Tantalus: The Axis of Pleasure

Tantalus defends the Yanks, hobnobs with Ismail Merchant, drops by the Marx Café, and offers five rules for the perfect dinner party.

Heartfelt apologies if you missed me last month. I was sliding along my own Axis of Pleasure -- Paris, Torino, Berlin -- either too lazy, flu-ridden, or incapacitated to recap anything that happened in the month of December. In the meantime, all the holiday wine was bonding intimately with my heavy cold medication, colonizing my head with strange imagery: suspended tunnels littered with damp moss-covered stones and this recurring dream with me lying in bed in a clown suit while Debbie Harry vacuumed in the living room dressed in capri pants and a sensible sweater.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Blondie, so what’s up with that, you Extra Strength Tylenol nighttime relief people? Then, those pesky Europeans kept badgering me about our bloodlust and boosterism. At a wedding reception in Paris, I was accosted by a bearded Braveheart extra in full ceremonial clan-gear (kilt, knife in the sock) who, in a single-malt delirium, lashed out at the American creed. “ARHGHHRR, Furrr Christ’s sakes. Ya dumb Yanks. Gonna blow us all ta bits, are yah. Ya, dumb Yanks?” I furrowed my brow. “Don’t be silly. Not all of you. Just the ones that wear diapers on their heads.” I did however concede that the Yanks that weren’t dumb were not doing far enough to check the whimsy of the Yanks that were. On hearing this, he stumbled off with a satisfied grunt.

Finally, still congested and feverish, I found myself on New Year’s Eve in Berlin at a high camp penthouse party hosted by a gay detective who playfully forced me to waltz with one of his scarier friends, a rail thin butch-cut elderly she-male with a really hard leg. I’m pretty sure it was a prosthetic limb.

Mr. Manner’s Five Cardinal Rules for the Perfect Dinner Party

Tantalus and the missus entertain often, and more formally as the real winter roles in. So I thought I would offer a few do’s and don’ts.

The King of Costume Drama Comes to Town

After this grotesque ballet, it was a welcome return to Washington-style civility and one of its unique cultural treasures, the embassy reception. In the wired age, embassies and ambassadors are less relevant now but they do have some prime real estate that they exploit nicely when hosting cocktail parties.

Ismail Merchant, Bombay-native and legendary Hollywood producer, was on hand recently at the Indian Embassy promoting his new autobiography. Funky Nehru jackets, beautiful Indian women weef eyes of leekwid coal wrapped in elaborate saris, and distinguished looking suits (the event was co-sponsored by the Oxford Society) gathered round to hear about Merchant’s slightly rascally rise to the top; as he himself admitted gleefully, all successful producers are class-A con men. His delivery was part self-deprecating, part self-satisfied but you have to admit he’s had a sterling career -- more than 40 films in 40 years, loads of awards, and some quirky encounters with the stars.

In the late ‘50s, as a struggling unknown, he wrangled his way into Paul Newman’s dressing room after a Broadway play, humbly expressed his adoration, and Cool Hand Luke rewarded him with a ride down to the Village on the back of his motorcycle. Impossible these days. Can you imagine cornering Leonardo and telling him how moved you were by his turn as a penniless painter in “Titanic?” First of all, he wouldn’t believe you; he knows, it was unconvincing. And then he’d say, “Get lost, stalker.”

What’s With the Tivoli?

It’s like a rare comet these days in movie land: a glut of good films. Kudos to the new Multiplex Loews in Georgetown for putting it all under one roof. Down by the windy Harbor that never really caught on, it’s a little remote for my Adams Morgan geographical bias, and when it’s Chicago weather, it feels like a drafty warehouse. So, stranded in the cold, you look at your watch and think hmmm, 12 minutes to showtime: Where can I get a drink? Problem is, the closest bar, Paparazzi, also feels like a drafty warehouse. So what ever happened to the Tivoli in this town of few theatres? That hulking glorious wreck on 14th and Park, a once-thriving movie house designed by the Art Deco meister Thomas Lamb, has for years been sulking in purgatory -- as neighborhood committees, developers, and the DC government are locked in a bitter embrace. Yeah, the neighborhood’s still a little dicey, but not beyond redemption or a multiplex, which is probably the same thing. Plus, nearby, for that pre-or post movie drink is…

The Marx Café

Little noticed on Mount Pleasant street, the Marx Café is a great option when the Raven feels too boisterous and democratic. Both the names Marx and Café deceive, the former because it suggests granola activists drinking green tea (when it’s really a mix of ex-Pearl regulars, Mount Pleasant bohos, and Howard grad students) and the latter because it’s really best after midnight when their DJs -- different flavors every night -- get their groove on.

Most admirably, recently on Rockabilly night, the DJs played two separate versions of “My Girl is Red Hot” by Bill Riley and the Little Green Men, a breakneck tempo classic that must have been recorded in a Tennessee kitchen at 4 am. The owner, Mark, mixes easily with the crowd, and surprises can await you there. Late one night, I plopped myself down next to a dead ringer for Beyoncé Knowles, blonde curly hair, caramel skin, flawless features, expecting idle chatter, and low and behold, she was an Indian neuroscientist about to take up a post doc at Penn. I had a lot of questions about the brain, mainly how memory is stored -- since this is of personal importance to me -- and she was helpful and affable throughout. Also, there are a bunch of books by or about Marx behind the bar for your reading pleasure. Tantalus’ recent book on Marx is there as well. Free signed copies to the first three readers who guess which one it is.

How to Sell Food and Irritate People

Finally, when we dine out, do we really need loud live music in the background? Nothing wrong with a little piano, but those free jazz fusion wanks can easily ruin a good meal. It’s the greatest shame when the owners take care of their kitchen. Along the 18th Street strip, a few places serve live jazz way too loud and the kitchens are uninspired. Not true at Felix, where otherwise fine food is spoiled by amps turned up to 11. So here’s my suggestion: Don’t start the live music until after the kitchen closes. Or, dine at Felix on Monday nights when the Satin Doll Trio plays suave ‘50s-style after-hours jazz à la Julie London. To boot, it’s fronted by the lovely Patrice and backed by her bass player husband Fred, and the mysteriously well-coifed guitarist Ken.

Half dog/half brain, Tantalus has authored a few books, and features for The Baltimore Sun, Newsweek, and The Washington City Paper.

Illustrations by Matthew Dawson (www.fevertown.com)