Where the homeless are like the rest of us, but can it survive?

All summer, the little boy came with his family to the restaurant for the homeless and just hungry. He was skinny, but by the time school started, he was bragging about his "four pack" to the volunteers who filled his glass and made sure he had bread.

The man who had a stroke came, too, grateful for the hot meal and the cool air even if he couldn't do much with his right side. He said he wanted desperately to get back to California, where his family would take care of him. Everyone hoped that's what happened when he didn't show up again.

The makeshift space over the Salvation Army near downtown Tampa is all of eight tables next to a big industrial kitchen. Each weekday, with an army of apron-wearing volunteers, Trinity Cafe manages to serve lunch to 175 to 200 people who wait restlessly outside, sun, rain or cold.

The volunteer who first called me said I should see what went on there, how it was more than a hot meal. She was right. No, it wasn't some astounding solution to homelessness, just a half-hour or so when a person on the street could be treated like more than what you brush past on the sidewalk.

The people who come, men mostly but also women and children, are served at busy tables. They are asked if they would like soup, if they are ready for dessert. The people serving want to know how they're doing today — things most of us expect without thinking, like a roof, or a bed.

The cafe opened in 2001, and more than a half-million meals later has survived on a prayer. But how long does a prayer last?

Donations, even to good programs, fade away in a bad economy. Grants that sustain this place, even with its relatively small $300,000 annual budget, dry up. Cuts start at the bottom.

In a lot of eyes, that would be here.

Just before the doors open, the people in aprons — burly bus boys, retirees, regular folk, college kids and women who look like they could as easily be at the yacht club — join hands. This time, I wear an apron, too. Before we're done I'll learn to give only four sugar packets per person but as much bread as we have to give. I'll meet people who are gracious and thankful, and some who just want to be left alone. I'll hear stories of jobs, drugs, booze, mistakes, bad breaks and promising leads. Except for one close call, I will not spill soup on anyone.

A sweet-faced man who is an out-of-work pipe fitter and forklift operator, a favorite here, says he has work in another state and we won't see him again. Later, he confides he'll be back to try out for the Bucs. I'm not sure what to make of this, but volunteers hug him and say good luck, so I go with that.

In the kitchen, chef Alfred Astl eyes his black bean sauce with that stern chef look, one he surely wore back when he was executive chef at fancy hotels across America. Here, his fried chicken is top draw, his stuffed peppers also a hit. They like it hearty.

"Some of them eat once a day," chef Alfred says. He is not a garrulous man, but you can see worry on his face about the fate of this place.

After the rush, stragglers tuck dessert bananas into backpacks, for later. As a man heads out the door, the volunteer who served him and chatted awhile calls out.

"Bye, sweetie," she says. "And happy birthday!"

For more information, go to trinitycafe.org.