On very rare occasions, the two older kids become interested in their heritage.  It usually coincides with one of them catching an episode of “Who Do You Think You Are?,” and it results in an endless round of parental inquisitions.

Their Mom bears the brunt of it, since she is a real, live immigrant to this country, as is the rest of her family (of course).

And depending on the definition, Yours Truly is either a first or second generation American, as all of my grandparents were immigrants of one kind or another.

I try to get them interested in the bits we know:

“You know your Great Aunt used to pass by the Titanic every day while it was being built?”

Silence.

“Do you know where the Titanic was built?”

“In a shipyard.”

“Where?”

Silence.

“Belfast.”

“I don’t remember that in the movie.”

Since we have a tendency to quickly exhaust the parts of the family tree for which we possess vague facts, we soon turn our attention to those parts for which all connections are somewhat tenuous.

You know.  The bits we don’t know.

Like my father’s side of the family.

The roots from that family tree originated from what used to be called Persia.

It’s a part that of our past that is only revealed when I grow a full beard.

Let me tell all you Muggles that no Mullah’s got anything on me when I sport full facial hair growth.

It’s both wild and exotic.

So it came to pass a couple of years ago that a Persian restaurant opened in our small suburban SoCal enclave.  In the spirit of supporting small businesses and paying tribute to our pseudo-heritage, we decided to make a visit.

The food was good, if not a bit pricey.  I think the bill for three of us was seventy-five or eighty bucks — roughly equivalent to seven trips to In-N-Out or four trips to Rubio’s (fish tacos must be more expensive than ground beef).  Overall, it was a pleasant experience, but I would be lying if I said we were dying to go back again.

After all, heritage is worth only so much, you know, especially when you’re hungry.

Just one shop over from the Persian place is a Vietnamese pho place.  I’ve gone there countless times over the last twenty-four months, and it is usually packed for both lunch and dinner — maybe because you can feed a family of four for about twenty-five dollars or so.

It’s all in the numbers in the restaurant patron game.

I often wondered how the Persian folks felt seeing their Vietnamese neighbors raking in the customers.  I couldn’t help but notice that they were never likewise that crowded.

So it came to pass three weeks ago we decided we needed something different for a meal out, and we hit upon the idea to visit the Persian place again.

Sadly, on a Sunday night the place was empty.  Oh, there was a guy at a table near the front, but I had the impression he was part of an extended family and not a real customer.

On this particular evening it was really, really hot, as well.  We were experiencing the last vestiges of what passes for a summer heat wave around here.  Aside from the lack of paying diners, the restaurant also had no air conditioning or, rather, chose not to have the a/c turned on.  Instead, there was a small oscillating fan swaying back and forth, and the hostess eventually pointed it sort of in our direction, which provided the illusion of ventilation for us.

No matter.  We ordered, and waited, and gazed upon the sea of vacant chairs and tables.

The sense of hopelessness was palpable.  It seemed they had given up.

What had happened, we wondered?  The food was good.  The place nice enough.  What?

We just didn’t know.

After our meal was delivered and consumed, I mentioned to the waitress/hostess that we always had good food here (both times we ate, I didn’t mention).

She thanked me and took my credit card.

Two weeks later as we rolled up for some pho, I noticed the lights were off at the Persian place.  My wife thought they might be closed on Sunday nights.

“It looks like they’re really closed, as in no longer in business,” I replied.

We walked up to the picture glass windows and gazed inside.  The space was barren.  Not a detail of what once had been still remained.

“Well, that must have been one of the last meals they ever served when we were here before,” I said.

“They had an ‘A’ Health Department rating,” my Spouse responded.  The sign was still hanging up.

It didn’t help.

A few days after I saw one of the two ladies that formerly ran the restaurant at a local foo-foo coffee place.  Though she didn’t recognize me, I did her.  She had taken my credit card during our last supper with her.

I overheard bits of her conversation with a friend, and she was celebrating her birthday.

She looked very happy.

– Dad