Doukas by Demetra Georgiou
Chapter 1
“Ria, table three has a complaint.”
“Ria, we’ve run out of lettuce.”
“Ria, one of the fryers is out.”
And it’s only been three hours since we’ve opened. What is the point of having a great taverna in Plaka—on a street that’s always busy— if nothing goes right?
Every day, we have fresh produce delivered, but my kitchen manager didn’t think it was important to notify me that today only half of our standing order arrived.
Sometimes, when my paranoid self threatens to emerge, I think that I’m being sabotaged. It’s not a totally absurd notion. If I decided to sell this place, I would be an extraordinarily rich woman. This is some prime real estate we’re talking about. You don’t just see Acropolis, you’re so close you can picture yourself dining with the Gods of a bygone age.
This is the taverna my grandpa opened nearly sixty years ago, and I can’t imagine my life without it. I know no one expects me to keep a failing business, but that’s the way I’m wired. I simply won’t admit defeat.
I undo my apron and remove my cap. “Tell Christos to take them a pitcher of the house wine, take lettuce off the menu and use the fryer I’ve brought from home.”
Sometimes I feel like I’m a contestant in Survivor: Restaurant Edition without having even the remotest possibility of being evicted from the island. I fix my hair and step out of the kitchen, summoning every hospitality skill I learned in college.
“Customer’s satisfaction comes first,” I mutter, eyeing the occupants of table number three.
Well, not tonight!
I smile at the other patrons as I move to the front of the restaurant, where lucky table number three is located. The place is packed, which is a pleasant surprise. Since it’s Wednesday, we work purely with locals and people who want to grab a quick bite before going to nearby Thission or Psirri to party the night away.
Halting before the two familiar faces, I take a deep breath to control my temper. I call them Timon and Pumbaa since they never bothered with their names, only their boss’. The nickname seems fitting since Timon is slim and Pumbaa short and burly, but their muscles and bad taste in clothes show me they mean business.
I glare at them both. “Thought I’ve made myself clear the last time.”
“I like you, Ria. I really do, but my boss is getting impatient. You don’t want to pay for protection? That’s fine, but you have to work with us,” Timon announces.
“There’s been a mutual agreement that we’ll never pay protection.”
“That’s ancient history, sweetheart. Times change.” Timon nods at Pumbaa, who stops devouring his seafood platter. “This is just a taste.”
With his plate of pastitsio in hand, Timon stands and promptly drops it on the floor. “This is unacceptable. Last week it was a worm in the salad, and now this? I’m going to call the health inspectors.”
“Enough,” comes a commanding voice to my left.
I glance at the two men sitting at a table next to the window. They’re both strikingly handsome in a brooding kind of way, but I can’t stop looking at the one who—if I’m not mistaken—spoke up.
Pumbaa turns his head, and I fear that he’s about to start a fight. I never intended to call the police, but I will if it comes to that. My stranger takes a sip of his wine, completely unperturbed. His expensive suit can’t hide his muscled form, and I can tell he’s not the type of person to back down from a fight. Still, I bet he didn’t bargain for one when he came here.
The seconds tick away, but nothing happens. The terrible two have a very peculiar expression, but my stranger stares straight at me. His friend, on the other hand, keeps eating without a care in the world.
This is a clash of power. No one around me seems to be doing anything, and I can only imagine what a spectacle we’ve become.
Taking matters into my own shaky hands, I decide to intervene. “I think you should leave.”
Timon’s face is priceless as he reaches into his back pocket and removes a twenty-euro note. What a cheap arse! He practically ran up an eighty-euro bill.
“And two hundred more. Did you expect to eat this exceptional food for free?” my stranger inquires with a raised voice and throws his napkin on the table.
For the first time, I note that Pumbaa’s face is red. It must be hard for him not to be able to show his muscle. Serves him right. Four fifty-euro notes later, Timon takes Pumbaa, and they both round their table to leave—quite clumsily, I might add.
“You’re done here,” my stranger warns in an authoritative tone that I find rather hot.
His friend takes a healthy bite from his plate and lifts one finger in the air in a ‘wait a minute’ sign. “Tread very carefully from now on.”
What’s that even supposed to mean?
I’m standing by the vacated table, trying to make sense of what has just gone down.
Timon and Pumbaa are part of a gang called the Ballers. Haven’t the foggiest why they chose that name. They sell protection, even when no one wants to buy. As it happens, I’m not obligated to pay them any, not only because it’s not right to give in to blackmail, but because of a promise.
During the Second World War, my grandfather helped the Ballers’ leader escape Athens and evade execution. My grandfather hid him in a barrel and transported him outside Athens, where he found refuge. That was when the notorious Kosmas Fanaris swore that his family would be indebted to ours. And some years later, we have Timon and Pumbaa as a token of his appreciation.
My musings are cut short when my gaze lands on my stranger again. He’s still looking at me intently. I’m not close enough to make out the color of his eyes, but I can feel them piercing right through me, stripping me naked and reaching my soul. He’s handsome, and I wish I could have met him under different circumstances, on a day with less drama and with me actually having some makeup on.
I plaster on a brave smile and head for their table. His friend is still working hard at devouring the contents of his plate, and I absently wonder when was the last time he ate. They both stand and smile at me. My stranger isn’t as tall as his friend, not even as bulky, but he still towers over me with his intimidating physique.
“Thank you.” I sound breathless. “I hope that little scene didn’t spoil your dinner.”
“Not at all,” his friend responds. “The food here is superb.”
I’m sure my cheeks are the same color as my stranger’s crimson shirt. “I’m doing the cooking, so thank you.”
“Really? I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal so much.”
Smiling, I turn to my stranger, who hasn’t said a word to me. “I’ll leave you to finish your dinner in peace.”
“Please join us,” the friend requests, and I tentatively obey. “I’m Alcaeus Tremes, and this is my brother Doukas.”
“Ria Vamou.”
Both men have unusual names, but Doukas suits him very well.
Proud, rare, strong.