Squid pickled in their own ink, octopus, salted eel, 53 kinds of pasta and almost twice that many varieties of cheese -- the groceries stocked at Antone's Import Co. had to strike beef-fed Houstonians of 40 years ago as perplexingly exotic.

But to Sicilian-born Mary Ribando, the nondescript store at Taft and McKinney had the feel of home. She reveled in the pungent odors of strange spices. To her young granddaughters, Vicki and Paula, who often accompanied her, she seemed to peruse the mysterious shelves for eternity.

Vicki Parker and Paula Kurland -- now middle-aged women with children of their own -- were among hundreds of Antone's patrons who came back to the store Wednesday for its final day of business. As the Antone's clock ticked toward closing time, Parker's eyes filled with tears.

"This is so sad," she said. "This is our heritage."

"Our grandmother brought us here. Our mother came here. We brought our children here," her sister added. "This is our last roots, our last link with them."

As Parker snapped photos of the store with a digital camera, dozens of others waited in line to make their last Antone's purchases. Still others clustered around half a dozen tables for a final sandwich or salad from the store's famed delicatessen.

"It's so familiar," said Byron Schirmbeck, 33, who as a child often came to the store with his father. "It's like something that has been here forever, then, out of the blue, it just folds."

While Wednesday was the last day for the original store at 807 Taft, franchise stores throughout the city -- operated by different owners -- will remain open.

Many who crowded the old store Wednesday expressed surprise and dismay at its fate. "It's surreal," said one, nodding toward the bare shelves and the piles of olives, spices and comestibles marked down for quick sale. Coffee cups and beans, pastry cutters, tables and chairs also were offered for sale, and store officials said remaining store and deli equipment will be auctioned early in the new year.

The stark fluorescent lights, bare red-tile linoleum floor and yellow, red and blue sign announcing the liquidation sale contributed to the somber atmosphere.

"This is just tearing me apart," wailed cashier Ann Marie Pennington, who joined the store's staff about 18 months ago, at last finding what she considered a perfect job. "It was a job you were happy to get up to go to in the morning," she said. "Now I have to go and get my rรฉsumรฉ ready."

Antone's controller Paul Good said the store is being sold to pay estate taxes after the March death of Josephine "Mama" Antone, widow of store founder Jalal Antone. Members of the Antone family have asked not to be interviewed, he said.

Jalal Antone, active in the Houston import business since his arrival in the 1930s, founded the original Antone's in 1962. Antone died at age 61 in 1974.

Of Lebanese extraction, the Antones stocked their store with the finest Mediterranean edibles and wines. Unlike today, when many of the same items can be purchased in mainstream supermarkets, Antone's Import Co. in its early years was virtually unique.

"It had character and charm," said Frank Smith, who patronized the store from its earliest years. "It was a little like going to a foreign country."

"You would open the door and the smell would just hit you in the face," recalled Ken Lesartre, who visited the store as a child with his father. "You would watch the little old ladies make the sandwiches while you waited."

From the beginning, the original Antone's was a neighborhood institution, one that lured patrons to socialize as well as shop and eat.

"I've always liked the flavor of the sandwiches sold here better (than those sold at franchises). I guess it's psychological, but they always tasted fresher," said Carl Carlock, a fancier of Antone's tuna and double-meat "red wrap" po-boys.

"I was sad when I heard of the closing."

"My dad used to bring me here all the time," said Schirmbeck. "He died two years ago. I'm pretty certain that his last meal was an Antone's po-boy. ... I live in Baytown now, and even out there people know about the (original) Antone's. The husband of my old fifth-grade teacher said he always came here.

"Everywhere you go, somebody has a story."

As diners recounted memories of the business, customers joined the snaking line to the cash register. By noon, as many 20 edged to the antique grocery counter, whose knee-level windows had revealed the beans, peas and other commodities its bins once contained.

Parker -- her eyes now dry -- was among those patiently waiting.

Behind her stood her young grandson, Deven.

Her hands grasped po-boy sandwiches and plastic bottles of condiments.

"Thanks," she said, "for the memories."