During school breaks, I would sometimes go to work with my mom. She was a cook at a restaurant called David’s Inn Restaurant and Cocktails on Michigan Avenue, and some of my favorite childhood memories are centered around that place.

I was an inquisitive child—nosy as hell, really—and for some reason, adults loved my nosy ass. I would float around the restaurant, watching my mama and the other ladies cook, peeking in on the dishwasher, and then wandering off to talk to Ann, the owner’s wife, who worked the cash register.

For some reason, Ann took a liking to me. Looking back, I think part of it was because I loved to read. Adults have always had a soft spot for children who read, especially little children who could sit down and carry on a whole conversation with them.

Then there was Pete, the owner. He was a big, handsome Greek man with a full head of silver hair and a booming voice. Sometimes he would bring his grandchildren to the restaurant, and when all of us kids got together, it felt like our own little racial utopia.

And Pete didn’t just let us run around having fun—he put our little asses to work too. He had Ann teach us how to use the cash register, and before long, we were actually ringing up customers. Pete paid us too. We even received a Christmas bonus right along with the adults.

I’m still tickled by that. We were children, but Pete knew that we were smart enough to comprehend and communicate. We learned how to handle money, talk to customers, work the register, and understand that if you worked, you got paid.

And when his grandchildren were there, none of us were thinking about race. We weren’t thinking about who was Black or who was Greek or who came from where. We were just children playing, laughing, working our little shifts, eating good food, and having a wonderful time while the grown folks worked around us. And we made some money.

David’s Inn is long gone now, but those memories aren’t. I can still see my mama in that kitchen. I can still hear Pete’s booming voice. I can still picture Ann behind the register. And I can still remember being that nosy little girl roaming around the restaurant like I worked there too.

Come to think of it, I actually did.

Those were good days.