Page 11 of Trusting Trey
With that statement, he got out of the car and came around to open my door, holding out his hand for me to take. It felt almost magnetic as my hand reached out, instantly wrapped in his. He smiled at me and I had a hard time not tripping over the curb as I closed the car door. He held the door open for me and I shook off the little bit of water on my raincoat in the entryway.
He slipped his hand in mine again as soon as we were in the building, walking up the ramp past the large brew kettle and fermenter to the restaurant. “You don’t have good memories of your childhood?” I asked as we stopped at the wooden podium outside the door of the restaurant. The building was originally a brewery in 1857, and now years later it housed a brewery again, along with specialty shops, a salon, and hotel. It catered to the guests’ needs and was even dog friendly. It boosted three different restaurants, a bookstore, and gym. Outside the lower level doors, the lakewalk ran the length of the building, stretching even farther toward Canal Park, another tourist favorite. This building felt alive the more time you spent in it. You couldn’t walk into Fitger’s and not feel like you had been transported back in time to the days when horses and buggies were the transportation of choice and when the craft of beer making had reached its height.
True to its name, The Brewhouse served multiple beers from their own line of ale, burgers to fall in love with, and beer battered fries that beat out anyone in the city. Trey kept a hand on my back as the waitress seated us. We were both able to order without even looking at the menu. A wild rice burger for him and a black and blue burger for me with a side of tator tots.
“Tator tots?” he asked, laughing a little when the waitress walked away. “Are you five?”
“I love tator tots; what can I say?” I asked, holding out my palms. “We love what we love, I guess, besides, a wild rice burger?”
He laughed and held up his hand. “Okay, you’ve got me there. I guess we love what we love. So, Allison, do you have a last name?”
He looked up at the waitress as she set our beers down on the table - pale ale for me, and a darker beer for him.
“Thank you,” he said to the gal who tucked the tray under her arm.
“You betcha. Your food will be out shortly,” she said, smiling, then walked away to leave me to answer his question.
I leaned back in my chair and fidgeted with the silverware wrapped in a napkin. If I told him my last name he would likely put it together with the Greek restaurant he mentioned earlier, but what choice do I have? If I don’t tell him now I’ll look like I’m hiding something. I groaned at myself. What am I trying to hide, that my dad owns a restaurant? Big deal. Only it felt like a big deal, I just didn’t know why.
He leaned forward and took my hands to stop them from playing with the silverware. “It’s a simple question, but if you don’t want to tell me, I understand.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I’m relatively careful about giving out my last name until I know I can trust the person, but you carry the vibe that says I can trust you.”
He nodded. “You can trust me. That’s what I tell all my patients and I haven’t let any of them down yet.”
I smiled at his honesty. “Are you a doctor or a nurse?” I asked, his whole demeanor telling me what he did was important.
“Neither. I’m a prosthetist and orthotist. Do you know what that is?”
I nodded, surprise written all over my face. “I do. I always thought that would be an awesome job. Talk about feeling great when someone literally walks out of your office when they rolled in.”
He laughed quietly, but his eyes smiled. “It’s an honorable profession and I end every day with total satisfaction because I’ve helped people improve their quality of life and get back to doing the things they love.”
“I can tell,” I said, my eyes crinkling at the corners because my smile filled my whole face. “My last name is Drakos,” I answered.
He looked at me closer “Drakos,” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s Greek, right?”
I nodded over my beer glass. “As Greek as it comes. Loukas is also Greek. We met at church.”
He took a sip of his beer and looked confused, but I saw when the light went on. “Wait, that Greek restaurant up on the hill is named Drakos Agape. Is that any relation to you?”
I ran my hand up and down my beer glass, the condensation dampening my hand. “You could say that. Mybabaowns that restaurant.”
“Baba? Is that grandfather?” he asked, his eyes focused on mine and mine alone.
“No, it means father in Greek. Grandfather ispapu.”
He motioned in a circle around my face. “Why do you have such a hard time telling someone that?” he asked.
I kept my eyes focused on my beer glass. “I usually don’t. I love my family’s restaurant and our culture. That said, my culture is intense for people who aren’t Greek.Babais traditional, meaning overly protective, when it comes to his only daughter. I’m almost twenty-three, but he still thinks I’m three.”
“Therefore going to the restaurant with a guy you’ve only just met would be frowned upon?” he asked, using his napkin to dry the glass of beer.
“You could say that,” I admitted, a smile creeping back to my face. “Beyond the fact that I get enough Greek food on a daily basis, I enjoy going to other places, meeting new people, and trying new foods.”
He held up his hands near his shoulders. “I won’t tell yourbabaif you don’t.”
I laughed while the waitress set our plates down on the table. It was my turn to thank her, as he seemed lost in thought. As soon as she left, I picked up my burger and took a giant bite. The blue cheese crumbles slipped out of the bun around my fingers and puddled on my plate, but it tasted like heaven.
