I’m not a huge fan of moules frites. There, I said it. Not because it tastes bad – quite the opposite. It’s perfectly fine. Occasionally, even good. But it’s one of those dishes where the effort-to-reward ratio feels… off.

Still, place me at a table where the group momentum is strong enough, and I will fold like a cheap deck chair. Suddenly I’m nodding along, “Yes, moules, great idea,” as if I’ve been craving a bucket of mollusks all week. I don’t want to be that guy – the one who derails the collective decision. Social survival instinct kicks in. I adapt. I comply. I smile. Just like the other night at a local restaurant, where they offered a package of a glass of decent bubbly and three French oysters for about 10 buckaroos.

Moules frites is less a meal and more a small project. It takes time. It takes commitment. It takes technique. You don’t just eat – you work. One shell at a time. Open, extract, repeat.

And this is where I run into problems. I’m a utensils guy. Knife, fork, structure, control. I like my meals to arrive in a state that suggests someone has already done the hard part. Moules frites, on the other hand, hands the responsibility back to you. Literally.

Same with shrimp. Love the taste. Absolutely love shrimp sandwiches. But shelling shrimp? That’s admin. I don’t want to handle my food before I can enjoy it unless I’m cooking it – and I do enough of that not to want to deal with it when I’m eating at a restaurant.

Oysters? Fantastic. As long as they arrive pre-opened. The moment I’m handed a tool and expected to pry something apart, my appetite starts yearning for a steak or a burger.

So no, nothing wrong with moules frites. It’s just that by the time I reach anything resembling satisfaction, I feel like I’ve completed a minor internship in seafood extraction.