Family Life: 1 Tantalus

And so Tantalus, my great-grandfather by one reckoning, great-great-grandfather by the other. Now, he got invited to a feast on Olympus. All that nectar and ambrosia, like extra thick double cream, lychees, cinnamon, fillet steak, nougat, Tabasco sauce, oysters, Manchego, clementines, chicory, a freshly brewed double espresso, marzipan, a 1980 Clos de la Roche, the whole lot blended, fused and scooped into magic mouthfuls. Bloody hell, he thought, as he sat there with the gods. I’m taking some of this home for my friends. Nobody will notice. So he tucked some under his robes. And that was that. Or so he thought.


Now, he’d enjoyed the hospitality of Olympus and wanted to return the favour. He asked Zeus; Zeus was delighted to accept. The day for the feast arrived and there was Tantalus, dressed up and ready, down in the palace kitchens with the cook, checking the stew. He took a spoon, dipped it into the pot, brought it to his lips, blew on it, then sucked in some of the juice and a shaving of lamb. From upstairs came the sound of his son Pelops (my grandfather by the one reckoning, great-grandfather by the other), crying in his cradle. Tantalus sampled the stew. Nice tangy, thymy lambiness. Lovely globby rich oiliness in the sauce, with floating flecks of blood red. Perfect! 

But shit! Just one hiccup. 

Not e-bloody-nough of it. 

Fuck! 

Now, I want you to make an effort here. Put yourself in his sandals. Zeus—the boss, if you like—is coming to dinner. You realise that you haven’t cooked enough. And there’s your chubby baby gurgling upstairs. Now, come on! It’s obvious, isn’t it? You can’t let Zeus down. You’re just showing willing. It’s a bit of a tease, too, really. You want to see if he’ll notice what he’s eating. I mean, if he’s god, he should know. And if he’s god … well, who knows? … he may bring the little chap back to life again. So there we are. Sorted. And there’s the doorbell ringing. A rush to the door. Wow! It’s the lot of them—Hera, Demeter, Apollo, Ares, the full caboodle. Good thing we did what we did. 

You serve aperitifs on the terrace. Finally, you usher everyone into the dining room, and they sit down. The butler comes in with the stew. Footmen take the plates round. By now you are feeling a bit nervous. Shit! I hope I didn’t go too far. No. It’s OK. You crack a feeble joke. You flap your hands around as if to drive off the doubts that are beginning to swarm at you like gnats. Well, tuck in, folks. Except these aren’t just folks. These are gods. And they aren’t stupid. They know what’s on their plates. And they’re looking at you. Except perhaps Demeter who’s on a different planet anyway, because of the loss of Persephone—but that’s another story. She’s already chomped into a chunk of Pelops’s shoulder before Artemis kicks her under the table to stop her. 

And that’s three crimes my forebear has committed. First, he nicked nectar and ambrosia from Olympus. Second, he served up his own son. Third, and perhaps worst of all, he took the gods for fools. Zeus, sitting there at the end of the table, lifted his hand. There was silence, as the other gods sat looking from him to Tantalus and back to him. A thunderbolt zinged down the table.

And if only that were it. Food and drink were Tantalus’s undoing. Food and drink would be his torment. See him, tied to the bough of a tree laden with fruit: nectarines, russet apples, mangoes, sweet dwarf bananas, naseberries, strawberries, figs, everything you can imagine. Beneath him are the waters of a lake, limpid and sparkling. The waters rise, and he bends down for a drink. But just as he does so, they recede and he finds himself gazing at a patch of mud. Or he reaches out for a fruit. The day is still and cloudless, yet just as he puts his hand out, a wind whips up and the fruit is snatched from his grasp.