Past Imperfect  Nostalgia isn't what it used to be. Not if my
recent time-tunnel excursion to Memorial's venerable Lantern Inn
is any indication. Prompted by ads touting the Inn's 30th
anniversary (an age that passes for ancient in this city), I
headed west, my brain filled with hazy memories of a dim, old-
fashioned dining room in which flames leaped high from tableside
carts and such comforting chestnuts as steak Diane dwelt on the
menu.  "I've seen funeral parlors that were cheerier," carped my
companion as our pupils struggled to adjust to the Inn's
perpetual dusk. "Cheery was never the point here," I told him as
we settled into one of the individual alcoves so cherished by
Memorial burghers -- "Lovers' Booths," the restaurant likes to
call them -- each one upholstered with crimson fabric walls,
draped in black chintz and equipped with twin rheostats. I
twirled one and then the other, deepening our own private
twilight; I admired our own private moon window of leaded glass,
behind which an illuminated drie