The Paris Seafood Incident: A Lesson in Grace Under Pressure

It was my first time in Paris, and like any twenty-three-year-old eager to impress, I was determined to make the most of the trip. I was traveling with a girl at the time, and everything had been going smoothly. We’d had a nice dinner, enjoyed the sights, and then, like the grand finale of a good night, we decided to stop by a café for dessert on our way back to the hotel.

As we walked in, the dim lights flickered softly over the tables, and the smell of freshly baked pastries and brewing coffee filled the air. We were in a cozy little café in the heart of Paris, the kind where the waiters seemed to glide between the tables with a practiced elegance, their faces wearing expressions of cool detachment—almost as if they were too sophisticated for the ordinary tourist. You know, the type of place where you half-expect someone to break into a monologue about existentialism while sipping wine. It was perfect.

The waiter gave us the menu, and I glanced at it, feeling a slight surge of confidence. “I’ve got this,” I thought. I knew a few words in French—enough to sound convincing, I hoped. My date, however, was already looking at the menu with a look of pure confusion. “I can’t read any of this,” she admitted with a chuckle, giving me the responsibility.

“Don’t worry,” I said with the swagger of a seasoned traveler. “I got this. How about some fruit for dessert?” I scanned the menu for a simple option. There it was—fruit de mer. Fruit, right? Simple, right?

“Fruit de mer,” I said to the waiter, trying to sound casual. He nodded, his eyebrow lifting slightly as he gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “Espresso,” I added for good measure, wanting to stick to the classic Parisian experience.

The waiter gave a slight nod and walked away, leaving me feeling, well, like I had nailed it. Confidence—that’s what I had, and it was about to pay off. But then my date looked at me, her eyes widening with curiosity. “What’s fruit de mer?” she asked.

I grinned. “Oh, it’s just fruit. You know, maybe a little parfait, maybe some berries. Parisian stuff. Simple.” I waved it off. She seemed doubtful, but she smiled and went along with it.

When the waiter came back, though, there was no dessert tray. Instead, he carried a massive platter, setting it down in front of us with a flourish. It wasn’t fruit.

No. No, it wasn’t fruit at all. It was seafood. A massive assortment of mussels, clams, oysters, and shrimp stared up at us, as if daring us to make the first move. The smell hit me like a freight train. I looked at my date. She looked back at me. Neither of us spoke. It was like the waiter was in on some sort of joke we hadn’t been told about.

There was no time to waste. I couldn’t let the waiter see that I had no idea what I’d ordered. I leaned in, lowered my voice, and said with complete confidence, “Looks good. Really fresh, huh?” She nodded, but her smile was tight.

The waiter gave me a look that seemed almost… proud. I couldn’t decide if I was being punked or if this was just the true Parisian experience. But I wasn’t about to back down. Not now. Not in front of this guy. “Never let them see you sweat, right?”

I grabbed a mussel, popped it in my mouth, and washed it down with a sip of espresso. The contrast was shocking. The seafood was cold, the espresso hot. I glanced at my date again—she was trying hard not to laugh. Every time the waiter walked by, I made sure to eat another piece, chewing slowly, nodding thoughtfully as if I were savoring each bite like it was the finest caviar. I was playing it cool. I was the picture of composure.

But inside, I was screaming. My stomach was already telling me that this was a terrible idea. But no one could see that. No one could see me sweat.

The waiter returned once more, and I could tell he was admiring my resolve. But I couldn’t maintain the façade much longer. The seafood wasn’t just sitting heavy in my stomach—it was now plotting its revenge. I couldn’t take another bite, but I had to. So, I did what any man would do in such a situation: I continued to pretend it was absolutely normal.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we wrapped up the “meal,” and I paid the bill with the same level of dignity I could muster. As soon as we got to the hotel, I dashed straight to the bathroom, my stomach protesting with every step. I had eaten too much—way too much. The combination of two full dinners, espresso, and seafood had taken its toll. So much for dessert that night.

And here’s the thing, Layla: Life has a hilarious habit of tossing unexpected situations at you like confetti at a parade. Sometimes, you think you’ve got everything figured out—like I thought I knew the menu—but then, bam! You’re served something completely out of left field, and you’ve got two choices: let it throw you off or roll with it like a champ.

That night, I decided to go for the championship, like a pineapple on a pizza—controversial, but confident. I could’ve panicked, but instead, I laughed it off, kept my cool, and tried to savor the experience—no matter how much my taste buds were protesting. It wasn’t about the food, or the espresso, or even the waiter’s “I-know-something-you-don’t” smirk. It was about being able to chuckle at myself, stay calm when things went sideways, and embrace the absurdity of the moment.

When life throws you curveballs—whether it’s a plate of seafood you didn’t order or a meticulously laid plan that suddenly goes haywire—just remember: keep your cool. Don’t let them see you sweat. And above all, always keep your sense of humor handy, because laughter truly is the best life preserver.

From my book to my granddaughter “Letters to Layla” - a collection of life lessons wrapped in stories worth telling.