A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be

Host: The restaurant was drenched in gold — chandeliers flickering like captured constellations, violins sighing softly under the din of clinking glasses and whispered vanity. Outside, the city glimmered under its own arrogance, but inside, the illusion was thicker: satin gowns, polished shoes, and the sweet perfume of performative grace.

At a candlelit corner table sat Jeeny, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder, her eyes reflecting the delicate flame of rebellion. Across from her, Jack lounged back in his chair, suit crisp, tie undone — cynicism wrapped in charm. A waiter had just placed before them two flutes of Champagne and a perfectly arranged lobster salad, its elegance bordering on satire.

The Host’s voice drifted through the air like smoke from a cigar — lush, languid, and knowing.

Host: There are evenings when the world feels like theater — the chandeliers, the laughter, the masks all too carefully fastened. And here, in this elegant illusion, two souls wrestle with an idea as old as appetite itself: the hunger for dignity, for beauty, for equality.

Jeeny: tilting her head, smirking “Lord Byron once said, ‘A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne — the only true feminine and becoming viands.’”

Jack: grinning “Ah, Byron — the man who could romanticize his own arrogance.”

Jeeny: mocking lightly “You say that like you don’t admire him.”

Jack: shrugging, sipping his drink “I admire his contradictions. The man worshiped women and imprisoned them in metaphors.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And yet his metaphors still glitter in people’s mouths, centuries later. That’s power.”

Jack: leaning forward “Or manipulation. He made women the subject and the decoration of his art, never the artist.”

Jeeny: picking up her fork, her tone teasing but sharp “And still, we read him. We quote him. We let him haunt the very spaces he’d have kept us silent in.”

Jack: eyes narrowing slightly “You sound almost forgiving.”

Jeeny: stirring her salad delicately, voice thoughtful “Not forgiving — understanding. He lived in a world where women’s voices were background music. But we’re the ones who write the melody now.”

Jack: smirks “So you’d toast to progress — with Champagne, of course?”

Jeeny: raising her glass with ironic grace “Naturally. Feminism with bubbles.”

Host: The candles flickered, the shadows leaned closer. The restaurant seemed to fade — the laughter of strangers became a distant hum, as if time itself paused to watch the duel unfold.

Jack: leaning in, his voice lower now, probing “Tell me, Jeeny — do you think women still perform for the gaze? The perfect bite, the soft laugh, the immaculate lipstick untouched by food?”

Jeeny: gazing at him steadily “Every society asks its women to perform. The script just changes costumes.”

Jack: quietly “And you? You play the part?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Sometimes. But the difference is — I know it’s a part. Awareness turns performance into protest.”

Jack: softly, intrigued “Protest?”

Jeeny: with growing fire “Yes. Every time a woman eats what she wants, speaks how she feels, lives as she chooses — she rewrites Byron’s sentence. She replaces lobster salad with agency.”

Jack: grinning “So the revolution begins with dinner?”

Jeeny: smiling back “It always does. Ask anyone who’s ever shared a meal and a truth.”

Host: The waiter drifted by, refilling their glasses with liquid light. The air grew heavier, intimate — not with romance, but revelation. Outside, a soft rain began to fall, tapping gently against the restaurant’s glass walls, as if the night itself were eavesdropping.

Jack: leaning back, thoughtful “You know, Byron’s line — it’s absurd, sure, but it’s also fragile. It’s a man confessing his fear of seeing women human. Eating, drinking — those are mortal acts. He wanted women celestial, untouchable.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. He adored the idea of us — not the appetite in us.”

Jack: nodding “And yet, here we are, two mortals eating under a god’s broken poetry.”

Jeeny: with a faint smile “Maybe the poetry isn’t broken. Maybe it’s evolving.”

Jack: curious “How so?”

Jeeny: leaning forward, her eyes burning gently in the candlelight “Because tonight, a woman sits here eating lobster salad and drinking Champagne — not to be seen, but to speak. And somewhere, Byron rolls in his grave, listening.”

Jack: laughing quietly “You think he’d mind?”

Jeeny: smiling slyly “He’d write a sonnet about it.”

Host: The camera lingers — her hand raising the glass, the shimmer of light on gold bubbles, the unhurried confidence of a woman defying centuries with the ease of breath. The music swells — soft piano, gentle rain, the quiet sound of transformation disguised as conversation.

Jack: after a long pause “You know, I used to think manners were elegance. But maybe they’re just fear wearing silk.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Yes. Fear of hunger. Fear of desire. Fear of being seen without polish.”

Jack: quietly “And yet, that’s where truth lives.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. In the unguarded bite. The messy laugh. The real appetite.”

Jack: raising his glass “So here’s to that — to hunger unashamed.”

Jeeny: clinking her glass against his “And to the women who dare to eat in the light.”

Host: The rain deepened outside, drumming against the windows like applause from another century. The restaurant hummed softly again — waiters gliding, laughter rising, the illusion restored. But at that small corner table, something irreversible had shifted: a single, elegant rebellion had been declared.

Host: Lord Byron once said, “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne — the only true feminine and becoming viands.”
Perhaps he spoke with wit, or vanity, or fear —
but tonight, his words find new meaning.

For every woman who eats without apology,
every voice that rises from behind decorum,
every hunger that dares to exist —
is poetry rewriting itself.

The true elegance is not restraint,
but authenticity.
Not performance,
but presence.

Host: The camera pans out, catching their reflections in the window — two figures framed by candlelight and rain, laughing softly as the night deepens.

And somewhere, beyond time,
Byron’s ghost watches —
still writing,
but no longer in charge of the story.