The Restaurant Called Freedom: A philosophical fable about choice, abundance, and the quiet surrender of our autonomy
By Prof. Gustavo Brito
In the restaurant lobby, a sculpture—apparently Baroque in style—demanded attention; it depicted a mythological pair. Carved in white marble, the elderly Cronos, depicted with broken wings, holds a large volume from which he is trying to tear a page. Behind him, standing, is Clio, carrying the elements that represent history: the book, the inkwell, and the stylus. Clio, with a focused gaze, prevents the god from destroying the record, while with her foot, she knocks over a cornucopia, which represents the transience and fragility of life. Memory and forgetfulness are in a constant struggle—that is what it seems to us. We enter.
This isn’t your average restaurant; it resembles a cathedral straight out of a dream, yet the service is attentive and swift. However, for a restaurant called Freedom, the problem lies with the menu. Once seated, we are surprised by a massive menu of appetizers—not just a book, but an encyclopedic series of possibilities. Right behind us, waiters are making their way with more and more volumes of the tome; there are so many that a queue of waiters has already formed, along with a growing pile of the menus, which multiply ad infinitum.
It’s hard to decide. But we’re hungry.
Nevertheless, the maître’s seemingly innocuous presence becomes unveiled; he was there the whole time, waiting for us to be ready to order. It would not be his place, of course, to interfere with our choice; that would be incongruous with the concept of a restaurant called Freedom. A dilemma arises: we have hunger—real, tangible, and absolutely reversible—alongside the eternity of all possibilities, summed up and cataloged, yet subject to the slow appreciation of reading, reflection, and, ultimately, the order.
With a slight wave of the hand, we catch the maître’s attention. He approaches the table with a gentle, light touch—clearly well-trained—and explains that the confusion is common, and that everyone who decides to try their luck at Freedom is amazed by such variety. “You can’t have it all…,” he smiles with rehearsed charm. So, before we can decide what to do, he offers us a condensed version—a richly illustrated booklet—that mesmerizes and excites us.
These are the recurring requests; he maintains an attitude that is oxymoronically both haughty and obsequious. We scanned the simplified version of Freedom—it looked appealing. We made up our minds; the meal was pleasant, and we were satisfied when we paid the bill. However, as we walked through the lobby, I felt a tinge of childish guilt for having lost everything for one. Perhaps a final thought crossed my mind: the cold storage room used to keep all that food for so many recipes was too small, and the maître would always serve the same dish. Since freedom is a choice and the options are unknown, the restaurant actually commodifies the option to give up freedom. The maître wins. We left.
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