For the sake of argument and illustration I will presume that

Host: The rain had just begun — the soft, tentative kind that taps on the window like a polite visitor unsure if it’s welcome. The restaurant was nearly empty, its lights dim and golden, casting reflections on the wet glass. Outside, the streetlamps shimmered in pools of water, and the faint hum of traffic murmured like the world thinking out loud.

At a small corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other — two plates between them, one half-empty, the other untouched. The menu lay open beside a half-drunk glass of red wine, its paper edges curling from the night’s humidity.

Jeeny stared at her salad, poking absently at the lettuce. Jack cut into his steak, precise, deliberate, his movements mechanical. On the napkin beside them, Jeeny had written down a quote she’d found earlier that day, underlined twice:

“For the sake of argument and illustration I will presume that certain articles of ordinary diet, however beneficial in youth, are prejudicial in advanced life, like beans to a horse, whose common ordinary food is hay and corn.” — William Banting

Jack: “Now that’s what I call Victorian logic. Eat your oats when you’re young, choke on your restraint when you’re old.”

Jeeny: “It’s not logic, Jack — it’s insight. He’s talking about change. About how what once nourished us can later harm us. It’s not just about diet. It’s about evolution.”

Host: Her voice was calm, thoughtful, but behind it was something softer — a nostalgia, maybe, for youth’s reckless freedom. The rain outside began to fall harder, each drop a quiet percussion on the glass, steady as breath.

Jack: “Evolution? Please. It’s self-denial dressed up as wisdom. You live, you eat, you enjoy. The rest is just people trying to moralize metabolism. Banting and his kind turned food into theology.”

Jeeny: “No — he turned it into awareness. He was one of the first to realize that time changes the body. You can’t feed fifty the same way you fed twenty. Not without consequence.”

Jack: “So what? You just stop enjoying everything as you age? You trade flavor for discipline? Pleasure for principle?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You trade ignorance for survival.”

Host: The waiter passed by silently, refilling their glasses. The aroma of grilled meat and rosemary drifted from the kitchen — comforting, nostalgic, heavy. Jack watched the waiter go, then leaned back, smirking.

Jack: “You sound like my doctor. ‘Cut down on salt, avoid red meat, more greens, more walks.’ You know what that sounds like to me?”

Jeeny: “Wisdom?”

Jack: “Boredom. Slow, flavorless boredom. Life’s short enough; why live it chewing grass?”

Jeeny: “Because you’re not supposed to die of your own habits.”

Jack: “But dying of someone else’s rules sounds worse.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about rules, Jack. It’s about rhythm. Life’s tempo changes. The body’s instrument wears down. If you keep playing at the same pace, you break the strings.”

Host: The rain intensified, rattling the window, soft thunder rumbling in the distance. Jack took a slow sip of wine, his eyes fixed on Jeeny — not angry, but defiant, as though she had challenged the last religion he still believed in: appetite.

Jack: “You always turn it poetic. But food isn’t philosophy. It’s the most human thing we do. It’s memory, culture, love. My grandmother used to fry bacon every morning until she was eighty-six.”

Jeeny: “And that’s beautiful. But maybe she could have lived to ninety-six without it.”

Jack: “Then what? Ten more years of boiled chicken and moral superiority? No thanks.”

Jeeny: “You don’t get it, Jack. It’s not about the bacon. It’s about being honest with your own limits. That’s what Banting meant. Youth thrives on indulgence. Age requires reflection.”

Jack: “Reflection tastes worse than bacon.”

Jeeny: “Only if you season it with sarcasm.”

Host: Her smile broke through the tension like sunlight slipping between storm clouds. Jack laughed — low, rough, the kind of laugh that didn’t come easily anymore.

The rain softened again, as though it, too, had exhaled. The restaurant felt quieter, smaller, as if time itself had pulled its chair up to listen.

Jack: “You really believe the old man was right, don’t you? That life should be lived with dietary repentance?”

Jeeny: “Not repentance — reverence. When you’re young, you eat like a conqueror. When you’re older, you eat like a caretaker. Of yourself, of the years you’ve earned.”

Jack: “And where’s the joy in that?”

Jeeny: “In the awareness. In tasting what you can, knowing what you shouldn’t. In learning that restraint can also be pleasure.”

Jack: “Pleasure in restraint. You sound like a monk.”

Jeeny: “Or a survivor.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked faintly. A couple in the far corner laughed — softly, intimately, a sound that seemed almost foreign to the quiet gravity between Jack and Jeeny.

Jack looked down at his plate. The steak had gone cold, untouched for minutes. He pushed it aside, reached for the bread basket, and broke a small piece — slower this time, as if considering every motion.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about the food. Maybe it’s about learning how to live with less… without feeling lesser.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Age isn’t punishment; it’s editing. You start trimming away what no longer fits the story.”

Jack: “And what’s left?”

Jeeny: “The truth. The things that nourish, not just fill.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest thing there is — choosing not just what to eat, but what to keep, what to let go.”

Host: The rain began to fade, leaving a quiet stillness behind — that fragile peace that always follows surrender. Outside, the streetlights gleamed brighter now, reflected in puddles like fragments of a softer world.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his tone quieter, stripped of its usual edge.

Jack: “You know, there’s something cruel about it. That the body betrays you just when the mind starts understanding what matters.”

Jeeny: “It’s not betrayal, Jack. It’s partnership. The body tells you what the mind refuses to hear — that nothing stays the same. Not even the hungers.”

Jack: “So aging is just learning to negotiate with yourself.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Learning when to say no — not because you’re afraid to die, but because you’ve finally learned how to live.”

Host: The waiter returned with the check. Jeeny reached for it, but Jack stopped her — a small, quiet gesture.

Jack: “Dinner’s on me. Consider it my last rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make it worth it.”

She smiled, tore a small piece of bread, dipped it into olive oil, and handed it to him. He took it — slow, deliberate — and for a moment, they both laughed at the simple defiance of it.

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The street, washed clean, reflected the faint glow of passing cars. As they stepped out into the night, the air smelled of wet earth and renewal.

They walked without hurry — Jack, a man learning the art of restraint; Jeeny, the quiet conscience beside him.

Behind them, the quote on Jeeny’s napkin remained on the table, slightly damp but legible, its meaning no longer academic, but lived.

“Certain articles of ordinary diet, however beneficial in youth, are prejudicial in advanced life…”

Host: And perhaps, beneath its old-fashioned phrasing, it was never about food at all —
but about knowing when to feed your body
and when to finally nourish your soul.