Best.
Steak.
Ever.
I don’t know what the hell they did to it differently than any other filet I’ve ever eaten in my life, but that was one fucking great steak.
For dessert I get a heavenly and gigantic piece of chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. The staff brings it out with a candle in it and singing their version of a birthday song.
I’m still slightly buzzed when we leave there and head to part two of the evening.
“Where to now?” I ask. “Strippers?”
He laughs. “You’ll see.”
I’m simultaneously disappointed and intrigued to discover our destination is a boutique craft beer tap room and brewery not far from the steakhouse. Carter gets us a table and goes up to the bar to place our orders, taking my ID with him. He returns with two glasses of ice water.
“I know I’m a little tipsy, but that’s the clearest looking beer I’ve ever seen.”
He grins as he returns my ID. “They’re coming. Hold your horses.”
A few minutes later, a waitress brings us our orders. Carter gets a smallish glass of something very pale and amber in color.
I get three planks set in front of me, each with four small glasses set in cutouts, arranged from darkest to lightest in color on each one. The waitress quickly explains what each one is, including leaving us with a small whiteboard with each choice listed.
“Holy crap,” I mutter as she leaves us. “That’s a lot.”
He grins. “Figured we might as well start testing and training your palate now.” He picks up his glass, sniffs it before sipping, and smiles. “Want a sip?”
“Sure.” It’s a little on the bitter side, but not like black-coffee bitter. “What is that?”
“It’s an IPA brewed over in Ybor.”
I stare at the twelve glasses before me. “How do I start doing this?”
“Well…” He picks up the little whiteboard and points at the first option, the darkest one on the first plank. “That’s a coffee and chocolate porter. It’ll taste a little heavy, probably a little bitter, but sip it slowly and see if you can taste the notes in it.”
I pick it up and do what he did, sniffing the contents first before hesitantly sipping. It is bitter, but not unpleasantly so. I can taste hints of a molasses kind of undertone, and coffee and chocolate. “That’s good.”
“Don’t drink it all at once. Try the others.”
We work down each flight, as he tells me they’re called, Carter explaining all the choices to me. What really hits me hard—and maybe I was feeling even more emotional than usual because of the alcohol—was that at no time did he come off as condescending, or make me feel stupid.
In fact, I note this. “Sorry I’m so stupid about—”
“Hey,no.” I look up at his firm tone. “I don’teverwant to hear you use that word about yourself.”
I blink back tears. I heard that word multiple times a week—if not a day—growing up. Usually with Mom chiding me, “Don’t be stupid.” Sometimes with her outright calling me stupid.
“You’re new to this,” he adds. “Don’t ever say that about yourself. You’re a smart guy.”
“I’ve never had alcohol before. I said that, right?”
He smiled. “Yeah, you did. But I didn’t mean alcohol. I meant you’re new to having people who love you.”
Okay, now Iamcrying. He hands me a napkin and sits back to let me pull myself together. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“Stop apologizing, buddy. We’re here to have fun tonight, okay? I want this to be a night you’ll remember forever.”
