“Are you sure you want to eat here? This is a fine dining establishment,” she repeated, her voice laced with mockery. Her gaze lingered on Shaq’s worn sneakers for a moment before traveling back up to his face. Her smile was a paper-thin veil over her disdain, and she spoke loudly enough for nearby tables to overhear.
Shaq, who was more than familiar with judgmental looks and dismissive words, simply smiled. He met Emma’s gaze squarely, his own eyes steady and unflinching. “Yes, I’d like to try the experience here,” he replied. His voice was so calm and polite that it rendered her sarcasm almost powerless.
But Emma wasn’t finished. Tilting her head, her lips curved into a half-smile, she seemed determined to make him uncomfortable. She turned with an exaggerated, theatrical grace, her movements bordering on a performance. “Follow me,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll find a seat suitable for you.”
Emma led Shaq right through the vibrant heart of the restaurant. Tables were set immaculately under the warm glow of crystal chandeliers. The diners seated there exuded sophistication, lost in lively, confident conversations. Yet Emma didn’t stop at any of these desirable spots.
Instead, she kept walking, guiding Shaq toward the farthest corner of the dining room. Here, the lighting was dimmer, and the atmosphere felt noticeably less refined. Stopping at a small table right near the kitchen entrance, where the clatter of dishes and the faint smell of cooking lingered, Emma turned. Her face was plastered with a false smile.
“This spot should match your style perfectly,” she said, dropping the heavy menu onto the table with a light thud. It was just loud enough to draw glances from the few patrons seated nearby.
Shaq just nodded, offering no visible reaction. He sat down, his smile unwavering, his eyes calm. It was as if everything unfolding around him had no power to disturb his inner peace.
Emma, however, felt unsatisfied. She had wanted to see him flustered, embarrassed, or, ideally, get up and leave. Shaq’s completely unruffled demeanor only made her more irritated.
She turned on her heel to walk away, but not without tossing one last comment, loud enough for the adjacent tables to hear. “Hope you enjoy this spot. Not everyone gets such a prime seat.”
The nearby diners began murmuring to one another. A few sympathetic glances were cast in Shaq’s direction, while others just watched with open curiosity. A young woman, Lisa, shook her head and whispered to her dining companion, “She’s so rude. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Meanwhile, at one of the central tables bathed in the restaurant’s softest light, an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Carter, observed the situation. Mr. Carter, a distinguished man with silver hair, sipped his wine and murmured to his wife, “He’s impressively composed. Most people would have reacted by now.”
Back at the reception desk, Emma smirked. She was pleased with what she saw as her clever solution to the problem. In her mind, Shaq couldn’t possibly last long. Yet, even as she savored her perceived victory, an invisible ripple of unease began to spread through the restaurant. Shaq, though he had said very little, had left a distinct impression—not just because of his imposing size, but because of his calm, commanding grace.
Tonight, La Lumiere was about to become more than just a place for fine dining. It was about to become the stage for an unforgettable lesson.
Emma stood a few steps away from Shaq’s table, her eyes glancing over as if she were calculating her next move to solidify her imagined authority. Her previous actions—the “special” seat and the subtle digs—hadn’t been enough to satisfy her sense of superiority.
Turning back, menu in hand, she approached Shaq’s table deliberately. Her slow, measured steps drew the attention of the diners nearby. Placing the menu down in front of him, Emma leaned in, her gaze brushing over him with a mocking edge.
“Would you like me to explain the prices?” she asked, her tone intentionally condescending. Her finger pointed to the corner of the menu, where the restaurant’s most luxurious dish was listed. “The most expensive item here is three hundred and fifty dollars,” she emphasized each word, her eyes locked onto Shaq’s face, searching for any trace of discomfort or hesitation.
Shaq, steady as a rock against a gentle wave, remained unshaken. He simply looked up, his eyes carrying a faint hint of amusement. “I’ll have the filet mignon Rossini,” he said, his tone perfectly calm, as if he were ordering the simplest item on the menu.
Shaq’s response made Emma falter for a second. She hadn’t expected him to choose the priciest dish so nonchalantly. Recovering quickly, she let out a short, derisive laugh, loud enough to draw more attention. “Oh, really?” Emma replied, her voice syrupy sweet but laced with a scorn she barely tried to hide. “I hope you know how to appreciate it. This isn’t the kind of food that everyone is accustomed to.”
Nearby diners definitely noticed. A young couple at a neighboring table whispered, “She’s so rude. Why would she talk to a customer like that?” The man beside her shook his head. “She probably thinks he can’t afford it.”
Emma, seemingly indifferent to the quiet disapproval of a few guests, stayed put at Shaq’s table. Her hand rested on the edge as she waited for a further reaction. But Shaq simply smiled. “Thank you for the suggestion. I’m looking forward to trying it,” he said, his polite and steady voice tinged with warmth.
Shaq’s composed reply unsettled Emma. In her mind, this towering man in casual sportswear and worn-out sneakers couldn’t possibly grasp the true value of such a luxurious dish. Yet, without realizing it, her own demeanor and actions had already exposed her pettiness and total lack of professionalism.
As she turned away, Emma deliberately raised her voice, addressing a colleague nearby. “Filet mignon Rossini. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s ordering. People like that usually pick expensive items just to look fancy. But wait till the check comes. I bet he’ll leave right away.”
Though seated, Shaq could feel the weight of all the eyes on him. Some diners looked on with sympathy, others with plain curiosity. Yet Shaq showed no signs of embarrassment or discomfort. Instead, he calmly opened the menu again, skimming through the other dishes with an air of genuine interest, as if he were merely enjoying a culinary adventure.
From the service counter, Emma continued to keep an eye on him. A flicker of irritation crossed her face at her inability to rattle Shaq, but she also felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, believing she had asserted her superiority over someone she deemed out of place in the world of La Lumiere.
However, from a corner table, Mr. Carter, the distinguished older gentleman, observed the scene intently. Turning to his wife, he murmured, “He’s testing everyone’s patience here. It’s intriguing.”…
