The Golden Lantern had eleven tables and, on most nights, four customers. Jun's grandmother cooked, his father carried plates, and Jun wiped menus older than he was. The menus were red and soft at the corners, covered in his grandmother's tiny handwriting. Nobody ever read the notes. People ordered noodles, ate quickly, and left before the rain stopped.
金灯笼面馆有十一张桌子，大多数晚上只有四位客人。俊的祖母掌勺，父亲端盘子，俊擦那些比他年纪还大的菜单。菜单是红色的，边角发软，上面写满祖母细小的字。从来没人读那些批注。人们点面，很快吃完，在雨停之前就离开。
One Tuesday, Mr. Han, who had eaten there every week for nine years, pointed at a smudge beside the beef noodle entry. “What does this say?” Jun leaned in. In the margin his grandmother had written: The first winter, we had one pot and two bowls. Jun had never heard that story. He looked at the blackened pot and felt as if the restaurant had grown a hidden room.
一个星期二，常客韩先生指着牛肉面那一栏旁边的一处淡淡字迹问：“这写的是什么？”俊凑过去。页边，祖母写着：第一个冬天，我们只有一口锅、两只碗。俊从没听过这个故事。他看着那口熏黑的锅，觉得这家小店好像多出了一间藏起来的屋子。
All that week Jun read the menus by lamplight. Beside the dumplings: Your father dropped a whole tray the day we opened. Beside the soup: This was the meal we gave to anyone who had no money. Some notes were only dates. Some were names of people Jun had never met. He began copying them into a notebook, careful not to smudge the pencil.
那一周，俊借着台灯把菜单读了个遍。饺子旁边写着：开店那天，你父亲打翻了一整盘。汤旁边写着：这是给没钱的人吃的饭。有些批注只有日期，有些是从未见过的人名。他开始把它们抄进笔记本，生怕蹭掉铅笔字。
On Friday he showed the notebook to his father, who read two pages and then went very still. “She never told me that,” he said. They stood together by the stove, and Jun understood that his grandmother had been writing a different kind of menu, one that listed what a person might need besides food: a welcome, a memory, a reason to come back.
星期五，他把笔记本拿给父亲看。父亲读了两页，忽然安静下来。“她从来没跟我说过。”他说。他们一起站在炉边，俊明白了，祖母一直在写另一种菜单，上面列的不是菜，而是一个人除了食物之外可能需要的东西：一句欢迎，一段记忆，一个再回来的理由。
In November, Jun printed the notes on cards and set one on each table. The first customers ignored them. Then a woman at table five laughed and read a card to her son. By December, people asked which dish had a story, and Mr. Han brought a photograph of the old pot for the door. The restaurant still had eleven tables, but now it had far more customers.
十一月，俊把那些批注印在小卡片上，每张桌子放一张。最初的客人没有在意。后来，五号桌的一位女士笑出声，把卡片读给儿子听。到了十二月，人们开始问哪道菜有故事，韩先生还带来一张旧锅的照片，要挂在门边。面馆还是十一张桌子，但客人不止四位了。
Jun's grandmother was at her sister's that winter and did not see the crowded room. On the first cold night, Jun found a new note in the menu's margin: If you are reading this, the pot is still on. He did not know who wrote it, or when. He left it there, turned the sign to open, and carried plates.
那个冬天，祖母住在妹妹家，没能看见满座的店。第一个寒冷的夜里，俊在菜单页边发现一行新字：如果你正在读这句话，锅还在火上。他不知道是谁写的，也不知道是什么时候写的。他让那行字留在原处，把牌子翻到“营业”，然后去端盘子。