“I know, right?” She grins up at me, pleased with herself.
I pick up the pace, practically dragging Emma along beside me as we head toward the restaurant. The East Village on a weekday morning is alive in a way that’s both chaotic and oddly comforting. We pass Veselka, the Ukrainian diner that’s been here since my parents moved to New York in the sixties. The flower shop on the corner has buckets of roses and lilies out front, the petals dark with rain. A guy on a skateboard weaves around us, nearly clipping Emma, and I pull her closer. The bagel place two doors down has a line out the door despite the weather. A woman with purple hair is walking three dogs that are all different sizes, and Emma squeals at them, delighted.
Then I see the sign for Roussos, green and white, hanging above the door. My parents opened this place in 1976 with money they’d saved for years. It’s tucked between a record store and a dry cleaner, but you’d never miss it. It’s always full of people eating, talking, laughing. There’s a small patio out front with four tables under an awning, and even in the drizzle, two of them are occupied.
We push through the door and I’m hit immediately with the smell of garlic and lemon and lamb. Olive oil and fresh bread. The dining room is packed—the lunch rush is in full swing. Most of the tables are taken, and I can see Peter, one of the serverswho’s been working here since I was in high school, weaving between tables with plates balanced on his arm.
The walls are cream-colored, hung with framed photos of Greece—the Parthenon, Santorini, the beaches in Crete. There are blue and white checked tablecloths on every table, and the ceiling has exposed wooden beams that my father installed himself. In the corner is a small shelf with candles and a small statute of the Virgin Mary that my grandmother gave my mother when they opened.
I recognize half the people in here. Mrs. Papadopoulos at the table by the window, who’s been coming here for lunch every Tuesday and Thursday since 1978. The two guys at the bar who work at the bookstore down the street. A couple in the back corner who I remember from when I was in middle school—they used to come in every Friday night and always ordered the same thing.
“Emma! My sweet, preciouskoukla mou!”
I look up and there’s my mother, arms already spread wide, barreling toward us from behind the counter. Emma shoots me a smug look that clearly saysI told you that’s what she’d say. I stifle a laugh.
My mother reaches us and scoops Emma up in one fluid motion, kissing both her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. My mother is sixty-three, small and sturdy, with dark curly hair that’s starting to gray at the temples. She’s full of an energy that makes you tired just watching her. She’s wearing her usual uniform—black pants, a white button-up, and an apron tied around her waist that has “Roussos” in embroidered green letters across the center.
“Look at you! So beautiful! So big!” She’s speaking half in English, half in Greek, the way she always does when she’s excited. “Did you eat breakfast? You look hungry. Are you hungry? I make you something.”
“Yiayia, I had a pretzel,” Emma says.
“A pretzel!” My mother looks horrified. “A pretzel is not breakfast! This is why you need your Yiayia,agapi mou. Come, come. I have Candy Land in the back office. We play, yes?”
Emma’s eyes go wide. “No way!”
“Yes way!” My mother sets her down and Emma immediately takes off running toward the back.
“Emma!” I call after her. “No kisses for your favorite dad?”
She skids to a stop, turns around, and gives me the most exasperated look a four-year-old can muster. “But it’sCandy Land!”
“Get over here!”
She huffs dramatically, runs back over, plants a wet kiss on my cheek, and then bolts toward the back office.
“Love you too!” I call after her, but she’s already gone.
My mother shakes her head, smiling. “So much energy, that girl. Like a little tornado.”
“Tell me about it.”
She looks up at me then, and her expression shifts. Suddenly she’s not Yiayia playing Candy Land. She’s my mother, and she’s worried. “You look tired,agori mou.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re working too hard. Look at you—so skinny! You eat?”
“I eat, Ma.”
“You don’t eat. I can tell. Your face is—” She gestures vaguely at my face. “Thin. You need to eat more. You come here for dinner tonight, yes? I make pastitsio.”
“I can’t tonight. I have a lecture and then I need to prep for tomorrow’s class.”
“Always working. Always, always working.” She reaches up and cups my face in her hands. “You can’t keep doing this, Leonidas. You need help.”
“I know. I’m working on it.”
“The nanny quit?”
