Food in Dublin has gotten immeasurably better than it was. When I

Host: The evening hummed with the sound of traffic and rain, that particular Dublin drizzle that blurred streetlights into soft orbs of amber. Inside a small bistro tucked off Camden Street, the air was heavy with garlic, coffee, and the faint echo of jazz. Wooden tables, chalkboard menus, and warm laughter painted the scene with a kind of grace that only a city reborn could possess.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, their reflection shimmering over the wet glass. Between them, steam rose from bowls of soup and fresh bread, a quiet ritual against the November chill.

Host: Outside, a busker played “Molly Malone”, his voice cracked but true, as if singing to the ghosts of the city’s past hunger.

Jeeny: (smiling) “You know, when McMorrow said that about Dublin — that food’s gotten immeasurably better — I felt that. It’s like the city’s learned to feed its soul again.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Feed its wallet, you mean. Every corner’s a gourmet café now. Fifteen euros for a sandwich and a story about where the lettuce grew. That’s not improvement, that’s branding.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “You’re impossible. But think about it — this city used to live on tea, toast, and tough meat pies. Now it’s a melting pot. You can taste the world here — Thai, Ethiopian, French, Mexican. Isn’t that growth?”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the window, a soft applause to Jeeny’s conviction. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes half-shadowed by the light above him.

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just another illusion of progress. A new flavor of the same hunger. The city hasn’t changed — just what it craves. Back then, it wanted bread; now it wants status.”

Jeeny: “You really think people eat sushi for status?”

Jack: “Of course. Half the folks snapping pictures of their food don’t even finish it. It’s not about taste, it’s about appearance. Food became another form of currency — a way to say, I can afford to care about aesthetics.”

Host: Jeeny tilted her head, her brown eyes narrowing slightly — not in anger, but in a deep, quiet sadness. She tore a piece of bread, dipped it into her soup, and spoke like someone remembering something tender.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my grandmother made stew that could make you cry. Not because it was fancy — it wasn’t. It was potatoes, carrots, and a little beef she’d saved up for all week. But it meant something. It was her way of saying, you’re home now. Don’t you see, Jack? Dublin’s new food scene isn’t just about taste — it’s about belonging. People creating, sharing, finding identity in the flavors they make.”

Jack: “Identity? You mean imitation. These restaurants — they’re replicas of New York, Paris, Tokyo. The city’s losing its own voice, Jeeny. You call it diversity; I call it confusion. We replaced authenticity with fusion.”

Host: His voice dropped low, husky with something between skepticism and nostalgia. The lights flickered as a gust of wind pressed against the door, carrying in the smell of wet cobblestone and fried batter from the chipper next door.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the beauty of it? That we can change, and still remember? Dublin’s not erasing itself — it’s evolving. Food’s just the evidence of a city learning to forgive its poverty.”

Jack: “Forgive, or forget? You talk about the city’s new cuisine like it’s a poem. But what about the people who still can’t afford to eat in places like this? The ones queuing at the food banks down on Thomas Street while we sit here debating the ethics of sourdough?”

Host: The room went still for a moment. Even the busker’s song outside drifted into a quiet pause, as though the city itself was holding its breath.

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s not fair, Jack. You think I don’t see that? But does that mean we can’t celebrate what’s been gained? Dublin used to be grey — not just the skies, but the spirit. Now people gather around food, share cultures, talk. That’s something.”

Jack: “It’s something, sure. But it’s not enough. The problem isn’t what we eat; it’s why. We’ve turned nourishment into entertainment, community into consumption.”

Host: The fireplace crackled, sending a faint glow across Jack’s face, carving deep shadows into his features. Jeeny leaned closer, her voice steady, her heart clearly in every word.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, when that waitress brought us this soup — she smiled. She cared. You can taste care. You can taste when someone wants to make you happy. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s good business. The smile’s part of the meal.”

Jeeny: “You’re such a cynic.”

Jack: “And you’re such an optimist.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound rising above the hum of the café, easing the tension. Outside, a bus passed, spraying puddles into the air, turning streetlight reflections into fleeting gold.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Dublin’s food tells the same story as its people — resilient, hungry, always reinventing itself. Maybe McMorrow wasn’t talking about flavor at all. Maybe he meant that choice is a kind of freedom — the one we didn’t used to have.”

Jack: “Freedom’s a tricky thing. Too many choices can drown you just as much as too few. You ever try to pick a restaurant in this city now? You scroll for an hour, end up at McDonald’s.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Maybe that’s evolution too — chaos with a side of fries.”

Host: Their laughter softened, turning into a comfortable silence. The rain had stopped; the glass gleamed clean again. In the distance, the river Liffey glimmered like a ribbon of steel, winding between the city’s past and present.

Jack: (quietly) “You’re right, you know. When I was a kid, my da’d bring home fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. We’d eat on the steps, hands greasy, and it felt like a feast. I miss that. Not the food — the simplicity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we’re both chasing — the feeling, not the flavor.”

Host: She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. The city’s noise faded to a soft hum — the sound of trains, laughter, rainwater, and the unspoken heartbeat of a place remembering itself.

Jack: “So, what do we do with all these choices, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “We taste them. Carefully. Thankfully. And we don’t forget what it was like to have none.”

Host: The moon slipped through a break in the clouds, casting a silver light across their table. Two bowls, half-finished. Two souls, half-fulfilled. The city outside kept breathing — new, ancient, and still hungry.

Host: In that quiet moment, Dublin seemed to listen — not to the voices or the rain, but to the soft truth that every city, like every person, must learn to feed both its body and its memory.