I don’t like making scenes.

The moment the waiter placed the plate in front of me, the smell hit me like a slap. Fish. Something seared and slathered in butter and lemon. A very wrong plate. I glanced at it, then at him, offering a polite nod that I hoped would erase the mistake without requiring words. But he was already gone.

"Mon dieu…" I muttered under my breath, gripping the fork like it might somehow make the fish disappear.

Across from me, my wife narrowed her eyes. I didn’t have to look up to know what came next.

"Bastien," she said, soft but sharp. "That’s not what you ordered."

I smiled weakly, shaking my head. “It’s fine, chérie. I’ll eat around it.” I picked up a sprig of parsley like it might be my salvation.

She didn’t buy it. She never does.

“You hate fish.” Her voice lowered, dangerous now. “You told him you wanted the steak. Medium rare. With the chimichurri.”

“Yes, but maybe—maybe they are out.” I winced. My accent thickened when I got nervous. I always sounded more Parisian when I lied.

She twisted around in her seat and waved the waiter down like she was hailing a cab on the strip. The poor guy was halfway through taking another table’s drink order when she called out, “Excuse me, hi! Yes—you gave my husband the wrong dish.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. The kind of sigh that belongs to men who would rather be caught in a burning server room than trapped in a social confrontation.

The waiter finally made his way over, polite smile plastered on like it might protect him from her fury. “This is what he ordered, ma’am.”

“No. It’s not. He asked for steak. Medium rare. Chimichurri on the side.”

I tried to wave it off, mumbling something about miscommunication, but she cut me off with a glance. The kind that said let me handle it. I leaned back into the booth, arms crossed, feeling like a teenage boy again while his mom fights the school principal.

The waiter shifted, stubborn. “I remember him saying fish."

I give a half hearted shrug. "Perhaps it was my accent?"