Little Pete's has not yet fallen to the wrecking ball, but mourning has begun for one of Philadelphia's last all-night diners, a throwback that has said, "No thank you," to the fancy-food revolution of a downtown gone upscale.

The rich, the poor, the young, the old; the man with the eye patch, the waitress who still smokes Marlboro Reds, the executive who knows the overnight waitress by name. All lament the imminent demise of a go-to greasy spoon that has served burgers 24 hours a day for 36 years beneath a concrete parking garage at 17th and Chancellor Streets.

From its inconspicuous corner in one of the city's most exclusive neighborhoods, Little Pete's has withstood decades of change.

But a plan to build a 12-story Manhattan-style boutique hotel could be the death blow to the feisty eatery beloved by many, one that fells the Greek-immigrant owners whose unpretentious old ways have been popular with celebrities, tycoons, and everyday folk.

Fans are not taking it well.

"They e-mail me. They tweet about the diner," said City Councilman Kenyatta Johnson, whose constituents greeted his proposed rezoning bill for the Hudson Hotel a few months ago with a #savelittlepetes Twitter campaign.

"People think that Little Pete's is a staple," said Johnson, who says he would like to see the Hudson go up and Little Pete's stay, somehow.

"The [Little Pete's] brothers have been feeding just about everybody in this town as long as I know," said their lawyer and longtime customer, John DeVirgilis. "I don't know anybody who hasn't eaten at Little Pete's."

In an increasingly upper-crust downtown, Little Pete's stands out as a magnet to the tired and hungry of all social classes. The trick: dated decor, no frills, and a soothingly ordinary menu that includes chips with an affordably priced sandwich.

A horseshoe-shaped counter crams 19 people shoulder-to-shoulder. Signs posted above its seven booths forbid customers from dining alone. The cashier takes only cash. And a 1970s-era cigarette machine requires $10 cash to dispense a pack to anyone hankering for a drag.

"This was a place," said co-owner John Koutroubas, prematurely invoking the past tense in a thick Greek accent he shares with his siblings, "a poor person could walk in and eat, and a rich person could walk in and eat.

"From a taxi driver to the mayor of Philadelphia," he said, "to a Hollywood movie star, to a judge."

Koutroubas, 54, says his brother Peter, 56, is the "brains" behind the eatery. A man so short he almost became a jockey, and so fast he can clear a ton of dirty plates in no time.

"The last day," said Pete, a guy who rides horses bareback and barefoot and has a big, devilish laugh, "I'm going to cry."

If Pete is the brains of the joint, then John is the soul. A man who believes Little Pete's is more than a place. More than a hangover hangout. More than a family business where he and his three peasant-farmer siblings came of age in a shiny new city.

It is the embodiment of the American dream. Because for all its grubby fixtures and unrefined ways, it is one of the few places left where high-rise janitors chow down next to lunching lawyers. An oasis of egalitarianism in a city losing its 1970s grit as affluent newcomers wipe away its dowdy past.

"I know how it feels to be poor, too," John said. "I came to this country with nothing."

Peter Koutroubas arrived in Philadelphia on June 16, 1972. He had just turned 14.

He came with his two brothers, Chris and John, his sister, Peggy, and his mother and father, Kostas and Vasiliki (Bessie).

Greece was under military dictatorship. The family lived in a house near a river and grew cherries, raspberries, walnuts, chestnuts, apples, and pears - sowing the fields with animal-drawn plows.

Kostas and Bessie would work the farms from 4 a.m. till 10 p.m., leaving Pete and his big sister to do the cooking at home, surrounded by goats, sheep, horses, cows, a small river, and with no electricity.

Still, landing in the city's Fairmount section was a shock.

"It was hot, humid, no air-conditioning, nowhere to swim," Pete recalled. "I said to myself: 'This is America? Or is this hell?' "

One day, several boys invited him to swim in the Schuylkill. Pete was horrified.

"My river, you see the fish," he lectured them. "The water is blue."

"Get me a job," Pete told his father, "or send me back."

RANDI FAIR / Staff Photographer

Little Pete's serves breakfast all day.

It was the seedy Seventies. Suburban flight had hollowed out the once-bustling city. But 24-hour eateries, many run by once-destitute Greek immigrants, remained hot spots.

Pete's first job was washing dishes at Day's Deli, at 18th and Spruce. Barely tall enough to do the job, he stood on a milk crate and shoveled dishes like a hulk.

"Ten minutes," Pete said, "I had them cleaned. Boss said, 'You're hired.' " He worked from 4 p.m. till 4 a.m. for $1.50 an hour.

In 1973, Pete talked himself into a $3-an-hour overnight gig at the Eagle II at Broad and Locust. There, Barry Manilow would meet with Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen one night in 1974 and boast that he would become the most famous of the three budding megastars.

Pete worked 15-hour days. But on the side, he trained at Philadelphia Park to become a jockey - a passion from his childhood.

By June 1978, that dream had faded. Pete instead signed a lease at 17th and Chancellor to a vacant, onetime outpost of the defunct Dewey's burger-and-shakes chain.

Kostas and Bessie washed dishes. Pete and Chris were cooks. A couple of waitresses came on board.

And Little Pete's was born.