My father’s diner， the Jefferson Coffee Shop， was a simple， 27-seat affair in Washington DC， open for breakfast and lunch—coffee and eggs in the morning， cold cuts3) and burgers4) in the afternoon. It was the size of a small train car， with 13 stools covered in orange vinyl5)， four booths6) along one wall， a cigarette machine， an open kitchen and a counter illuminated by overhead lamps that my father and I had hung one Saturday. My dad bought the place in 1965， after various jobs in carryouts7) and soda fountains8)， and a stint9) working for my grandfather at Frank’s Carryout， a soul-food10) eatery11) and beer garden12). The Jefferson， on 19th Street， was my father’s pride. I still have a cherished photo of him in his apron， standing over the grill13)， spatula14) in hand， smiling. My dad was never happier than when he was running his magazi15).

I started working for my dad as a delivery boy when I was 11 years old. At the diner， our all-black crew consisted of a grill woman， one waitress， a sandwich maker and a dish washer. Southern soul and gospel16) played on the radio all day long， giving me my music education. The lunch counter was an uncrossed line， with mostly white professionals on one side， blacks and Greek-Americans on the other. Intellectually， I was too young to understand the dynamic， but on a gut17) level I knew where I stood.

As happens for many fathers and sons， we grew apart as I hit my teens. My personal profile was not atypical for the blue-collar neighbourhood where I was raised. I played pickup18) basketball， drove a muscle car19)， listened to funk20)， rock and soul， attended many concerts， chased girls， drank beer， smoked weed until my head caved in21)， and underperformed at my school， where half of the kids did not go on to college. I was pulled over by the police many times， got in fights and found all kinds of trouble. When I was 17 I accidentally shot a friend in the face with a police handgun that my father had bought on the black market. I was skipping22) school at the time in my parents’ house. When my dad walked through the door that night， he dropped the bags he was carrying as he saw my friend’s blood splashed upon the living room walls.

I don’t know what my father thought of me then， but it’s safe to say that he was not proud. He was a tough， handsome guy， an ex-Marine who had fought in the Pacific， but quiet， with nothing to prove. I was a skinny dude with a shoulder-length Afro23)， sporting flannel shirts， ripped24) Levi’s and suede Pumas. I could not have been what he had hoped for in a son. I know he loved me; I also know that I must have been a tremendous disappointment to him at the time. Inwardly， I wanted to please him， but I was who I was.

In December 1975， after a dance， my dad took a bunch of friends over to the Jefferson to cook them a late-night breakfast. I witnessed his joy as he prepared the food， but as I watched him perspiring25) through his shirt I thought: he’s working too hard. A couple of days later， at the age of 54， he had a heart attack.

My mother sat me down in the kitchen of our split-level26) home. We had no insurance for our business， no savings， and probably little in the way of health insurance. I was to quit university and take over the running of the diner. Though I hadn’t worked there in years， I had to summon what I remembered and make it happen. There wasn’t any choice. I was about to become the breadwinner27) for my family and I was 18 years old. The next day， I took over the business.

It was rough going at first. I had to be up to greet the ice man and the bread man at 5:30 am. I had to manage our adult crew， and I was not much more than a kid. I had to learn every aspect of the business and work every station， because we were often short-handed. And I had to learn how to deal with customers.

Every night I took the cash home and gave it to my mother. I was never paid a dime. It wasn’t unjust: after paying the food brokers and staff， there was no money left. I began to understand that my father had worked so hard all those years for very little in return. His diner paid the bills， kept the roof over our heads and fed us， but there was nothing extra for him. There would be no extra for me.

It sounds like hardship but actually it was fun. I didn’t want to be a student， and this was my way out. I was told by a customer that I should take the place over permanently， as “your people are good at running restaurants.” The ethnic slag28) aside， he was right. It did feel natural. I turned 19 and began to inhabit my role of junior businessman. I got used to waking up in darkness after a few hours’ sleep. I took pride in making it into work at the appointed hour.

My favourite time was just before dawn， driving to work on 16th Street in my gold Camaro29)， the windows down， smoking a Marlboro Menthol， listening to the glorious music coming loud from my Pioneer 8-track deck and speakers30). The tunes made movies in my head and jacked up31) my imagination. I had a crazy idea that I might write stories some day， perhaps make films. But how would an unconnected Greek kid get there? If my plan was naive， it didn’t matter. The dream sustained me.

Later that summer， when my father returned to work， I took off with my pal Steve Rados and wandered around the south on various adventures of the mind and flesh. That year—1976—was the most thrilling of my life. And， I know now， the most important.

Many fathers and sons never get to reconcile their differences or come to an understanding that fills the gap between love and expectations. I’m forever grateful to have had the opportunity to prove myself to my dad. After I took over the diner， the look in my father’s eyes went from disappointment to respect. He never even had to say it—I knew. Not that32) I had matured by leaps and bounds. Nine years later， months before I got married， I was arrested for assault， fleeing and eluding the police， driving on the sidewalk and other charges after a fight in a parking lot， fuelled by alcohol and culminating in a high-speed chase. So， yeah， it took me a long time to grow up. But to my father， even with all my nonsense， I was a man.

Every so often I take the metro33) down to Dupont Circle34)， walk into the old diner and have a seat on one of the orange stools. The current owner has switched the menu to gourmet35) fare36) and changed the name， but the space is unchanged. The lights my father and I installed still hang over the counter. I order my food， eat my meal and look towards the grill， where I can see my baba in his apron， spatula in hand， flipping burgers and smiling. I’m not having visions; I’m visiting my dad.

父親經營的小餐館名為杰斐遜咖啡館，位于華盛頓特區(qū)，是家布局簡單的餐館，只有27個座位，主要經營早餐和午餐——早餐有咖啡和雞蛋，午餐有冷盤和漢堡。餐館有一節(jié)小型火車車廂那么大，擺放著13張覆有橘色乙烯基塑料的凳子，沿著一面墻設有四個火車座，還有一臺售煙機，一間開放式廚房，一節(jié)有頂燈照明的柜臺，那頂燈還是一個周六我和父親一起掛上的。父親在1965年買下了這家餐館，之前他曾干過各種工作，做過外賣，賣過冷飲，還曾在我祖父經營的弗蘭克外賣店干過一段時間，那是一家?guī)в新短炱【苹▓@的靈魂食品小吃店。杰斐遜咖啡廳就在第19大街上，那是父親的驕傲。至今我仍然珍藏著一張他圍著圍裙的照片，站在烤架前，手里拿著鏟子，滿面笑容。經營餐館的時候是父親最快樂的時光。

11歲時，我就開始給父親打工，送外賣。餐館里的黑人員工包括一個燒烤女工，一個女服務員，一個三明治制作師，還有一個洗碗工。餐館的收音機里一天到晚都在播放南方靈魂樂和福音音樂，這就是我所接受的音樂教育。午餐柜臺是一道不曾逾越的分界線，一邊幾乎全是白人專業(yè)人員，另一邊是黑人和美籍希臘人。那時我還小，尚不明白事理，無法理解造成這一現(xiàn)實的原因是什么，但我本能地知道自己站在柜臺的哪一邊。

正如許多別的父子一樣，我十幾歲時也和父親漸漸疏遠起來。就我所成長的那個藍領社區(qū)來說，我的個人經歷不能說不具代表性。玩即興式的籃球賽，開大功率的肌肉車，聽瘋克、搖滾和靈魂音樂，經常光顧演唱會，泡妞，喝啤酒，抽煙抽到頭發(fā)懵，在學校里成績一塌糊涂——那兒有一半的學生都上不了大學。我經常被警察帶走，打架斗毆，沒有不敢惹的麻煩。17歲時，我一不小心給朋友臉上來了一槍，那是一把警用手槍，是父親在黑市上買的。當時我正蹺課在父母房子里玩。那天晚上，父親一進家門就看到了我朋友濺在客廳墻上的血，他身上背著的包一下子就掉到了地上。

我不知道那時父親是怎么看我的，但可以很肯定地說，我不是他的驕傲。他是個硬漢，人長得也帥氣，以前在海軍陸戰(zhàn)隊服役，參加過太平洋戰(zhàn)爭，但為人低調，從不想證明什么。我則是個瘦瘦的小子，留著一頭齊肩的圓蓬式發(fā)型，穿著運動式法蘭絨上衣、帶破洞的李維斯牛仔褲和彪馬小山羊皮鞋。他心目中兒子的樣子肯定不是我這樣的。我知道他愛我，我也知道那個時候他對我一定失望透頂。從內心來講，我想讓他高興，可我就這副德性。

1975年12月，在一次舞會后，父親帶了一幫朋友來到杰斐遜咖啡館，給他們做夜宵。我看得出他忙來忙去時的那份高興勁兒，但看到他累得襯衣都被汗水濕透了時，我心想：他太辛苦了。幾天之后，他的心臟病就發(fā)作了，那時他才54歲。

在我們錯層式的房子里，媽媽把我喊到廚房里坐下。我們的餐館沒有上保險，我們也沒有積蓄，醫(yī)療保險大概也很少。我必須終止大學學習，擔負起經營餐館的責任。雖然我已有好幾年沒在餐館工作了，但我必須憑著以前打工的記憶，把餐館經營下去。我根本沒有選擇的余地。我即將成為家里的頂梁柱，而且我已經滿18歲了。第二天，我就接管了餐館。

萬事開頭難。每天早上五點半，我就要起床迎接送冰塊和送面包的人。我還要管理店里的成年員工，而我自己差不多還是個孩子。我必須熟悉餐館經營的方方面面，每個崗位的工作都要干，因為我們常常人手不夠。此外，我還要學會如何與顧客打交道。

每晚我都把收入的現(xiàn)金拿回家交給母親，我自己從來沒有拿過一分錢。這也沒什么可抱怨的：在支付了食品經銷商的費用和員工工資之后，已經沒有什么剩余了。我開始明白，父親這些年來辛辛苦苦工作，所得到的回報實在是微乎其微。他經營的餐館只夠支付各種賬單，使我們居有定所，食可果腹，此外再也沒有多余的錢供他自己花銷。當然現(xiàn)在也不會有多余的錢供我自己花銷。

聽起來這日子很艱苦，但實際上我還是很開心的。我早就不想上學，這也許是最好的出路。一位顧客告訴我，我應該永久地接管這個餐館，因為“你們這種人都擅長經營餐館”。撇開他話中的種族主義色彩不說，他的話還是很有道理的。我干起這一行來的確覺得得心應手。我19歲了，已開始進入我作為年輕商人的角色。我已習慣了睡上幾小時之后在黑暗中醒來。我特別看重按既定時間開始工作，我以此為自豪。

我最喜歡的時間是在黎明前，開著金色的大黃蜂去上班。車在第16大街上行駛，我搖下車窗，抽著薄荷萬寶路，聽著八聲道的先鋒音響播放的雄壯高亢的音樂。音樂的旋律在我腦海中像放電影一樣，激起了我的想象。我有了一個瘋狂的想法：有一天我也許會寫小說，也可能拍電影。可是一個毫無社會關系的希臘小子怎么才能實現(xiàn)這個目標呢？不過，即使我的想法很幼稚，那也沒關系。這個夢想是我的精神支柱。

那年夏末，父親回到了餐館工作，我便得以抽身和好友史蒂夫·拉多斯一起到南方游玩，經歷各種身心歷險。那一年——1976年——是我一生中最刺激的一年。而且，我現(xiàn)在意識到，也是最重要的一年。

許多父子永遠都無法調和他們之間的分歧，也無法以相互理解來填補愛與期望之間的距離。我卻有機會向父親證實自己的能力，對此我永遠心存感激。在我接管餐館之后，父親的眼神就從失望變成了尊重。他甚至根本無需用語言來表達，我已心領神會。但這并不是因為我突飛猛進地成熟起來。九年后，在我結婚前的幾個月，在酒精的刺激下，我在停車場和別人干了一架，隨后又駕車開始了一場瘋狂的追逐，結果被警察抓住，被指控犯有斗毆、逃逸、躲避警察、在人行道上駕車等罪名。所以說，沒錯，我還遠遠沒有成熟。但在父親看來，即使我這般胡鬧，我也是個男子漢了。

時不時地，我會乘地鐵前往杜邦環(huán)島，走進那家老餐館，在其中一只橘色的圓凳上坐下。現(xiàn)在的店主已經把菜單換成了精美菜肴，餐館的名字也改了，但內部空間并沒有改變。我和父親安裝的燈具還依然掛在柜臺上方。我點好餐，一邊吃，一邊向烤架望去，在那里，我又看到爸爸系著圍裙，手拿鏟子，翻動著漢堡包，滿面笑容。這不是我的幻覺。我就是來看望爸爸的。

1.diner [?da?n?(r)] n. (路邊的)小餐館

2.George Pelecanos：喬治·佩勒卡諾斯(1957～)，美籍希臘人，美國知名推理小說家，美劇《火線》(The Wire)的編劇之一

3.cold cuts：冷切肉(切片冷吃的熏肉、腌牛肉、火腿、香腸或干酪等)

4.burger [?b??(r)ɡ?(r)] n.〈美口〉漢堡包；漢堡牛排

5.vinyl [?va?n(?)l] n. 聚乙烯基薄膜，是一種強度大、伸縮性強且發(fā)亮的塑料，用于表面蓋層和包裝層。

6.booth [bu?e] n. (餐館、咖啡館中的)火車座

7.carryout [?k?ria?t] n. 外賣食品

8.soda fountain：(供應飲料、冰淇淋、快餐等的)冷飲柜臺，冷飲小賣部

9.stint [st?nt] n. 定額工作；工作期限

10.soul-food：美國(尤指南方)黑人常吃的食物(如豬小腸、玉米面包等)

11.eatery [?i?t?ri] n. 供應便餐的小餐館

12.beer garden：(設在花園或院子里的)露天啤酒店

13.grill [ɡr?l] n. 烤架

14.spatula [?sp?tj?l?] n. (涂敷、調拌等用的)抹刀，刮刀，刮勺；刮鏟

15.magazi：〈希臘〉餐館

16.gospel [?ɡ?sp(?)l] n. 福音音樂，美國黑人的一種宗教音樂，具有爵士音樂和美國黑人傷感歌曲色彩。

17.gut [ɡ?t] n. 內容；本質，實質

18.pickup [?p?k?p] adj. 臨時拼湊的

19.muscle car：〈美俚〉大馬力中型汽車，高速中型汽車，也叫“肌肉車”。“肌肉車”一詞出現(xiàn)于20世紀八九十年代，特別用于稱呼活躍于20世紀六七十年代的一類具有強勁馬力、外形富有肌肉感的美式跑車。

20.funk [f??k] n. (由黑人布魯斯發(fā)展成的)鄉(xiāng)土爵士音樂，鄉(xiāng)土音樂，也譯為“瘋克”。

21.cave in：垮掉

22.skip [sk?p] vt. 遺漏

23.Afro [??fr??] n. 埃弗羅發(fā)式，一種類似非洲黑人自然發(fā)式的呈圓形的蓬松鬈發(fā)；圓蓬式發(fā)型

24.rip [r?p] vt. 撕；撕破

25.perspire [p?(r)?spa??(r)] vi. 流汗

26.split-level：錯層式的；房內有不同高度平面的

27.breadwinner [?bred?w?n?(r)] n. 負擔家計的人；養(yǎng)家糊口的人

28.slag [sl?ɡ] n. 廢話，胡言亂語

29.Camaro：科邁羅，雪佛蘭牌汽車的一款，它更為人熟知的名字是“大黃蜂”，由美國通用汽車公司生產。

30.speaker [?spi?k?(r)] n. 揚聲器

31.jack up：激勵，鼓舞

32.not that：并不是說，并非

33.metro [?metr??] n. 地鐵

34.Dupont Circle：杜邦環(huán)島，位于美國華盛頓特區(qū)西北部的一個街區(qū)

35.gourmet [?ɡ??(r)me?] adj. 出于美食家之手的

36.fare [fe?(r)] n. 食物