There's a strange familiarity in letting the taller man lead, an almost instinctive suggestion that has Abraham trailing in his wake like a dog on a rope before he even knows he's moving. He doesn't try to avoid the narrow glances that follow them across the room, but meets them instead, chewing on his papirosa, and wonders what dark secrets they're hiding. Every man has at least one, in his experience.

The rich goy seems to be in his element now, the tense lines of his body language relaxed. Abraham drapes his jacket across the back of the chair and sits down across from him, watching his face but not entirely convinced of his own safety yet. The fresh air off the water is welcome, though the place still manages to feel a little confining, and he touches the heavy silver cutlery already laid out with reverent fingertips.

He glances between the waiter and his companion as an order is put in on his behalf, recognising the request if not the qualifier. Before the waiter can turn away, he dredges up a little more English and catches at his sleeve, tugging him back to add a footnote of his own.

"Chicken." He motions to his glass. "Vodka."

That done, he settles back, eyeing the other man thoughtfully. Then he shifts in his chair and sticks out one hand decisively across the table.

"Abraham," he offers. "Es freyt mir dikh tsu kenen."