do know that half of those stories are false?" But then, it became hard to stop -- particularly when customers asked leading questions. One wanted to know if the ladies' room had once been a dumbwaiter that carried people to a gambling den on the second floor. Another had heard that, actually, the dumbwaiter went to the basement and was how they carried the booze inside. Or, according to someone else, that's what the trapdoor was for, since it connected to a tunnel that led to the rum- delivering boats. Still others pointed to that door in the floor and told their friends, "Runaway slaves used to climb through that hole because when this was a blacksmith's shop, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad." And then they'd look up at me, all of them, with eager eyes, and ask, "Isn't that right?" Um, er, thwlllpb, "Sure is! Neat, huh?" Tell them what they want to hear. The only time I didn't play along, I instantly regretted it. While I distributed menus, a father told his children that this had been where Dylan Thomas died. "Actually," I piped in, "you're thinking of the White Horse." His face sank, and so did his children's. What had I achieved? What mattered more: verifying a useless fact or giving them a memorable meal -- one whose imagined worth exceeded the menu's prices? Besides, I can't say for sure that Thomas didn't stop by Chumley's for one round before heading to the White