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123022, Москва, Звенигородское ш., 4,
торговый центр "Электроника на Пресне", офис В-46
тел/факс +7(495) 788-4130, 740-2920
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Did your boss beat you up, Henry?" "No, Mother . . ." "Why don't you eat, Henry? You never seem to be hungry." "He can't eat," said my father, "he can't work, he can't do anything, he's not worth a fuck!" "You shouldn't talk that way at the dinner table, Daddy," my mother told him.
Well, it's true!" My father had an immense ball of spaghetti rolled on his fork.
He jammed it into his mouth and started chewing and while chewing he speared a large meatball and plunged it into his mouth, then worked in a piece of French bread.
I remembered what Ivan had said in The Brothers Karamazov, "Who doesn't want to kill the father?" As my father chewed at the mass of food, one long string of spaghetti dangled from a corner of his mouth.
He finally noticed it and sucked it in noisily.
Then he reached, put two large teaspoons of white sugar into his coffee, lifted the cup and took a giant mouthful, which he immediately spit out across his plate and onto the tablecloth.
That shit's too hot!" "You should be more careful, Daddy," said my mother.
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