I don't avoid any particular food. But I don't eat too much.

Host: The morning was soft and slow, the kind that tastes like dew and discipline. Through the wide windows of a Jakarta café, the first light of dawn slipped across polished marble tables and sleepy faces. Outside, the city was just beginning to stir—vendors setting up their stalls, motorbikes rumbling like the city’s heartbeat returning to rhythm.

Host: Inside, a quiet corner table caught the glow of the rising sun. Jack sat there, stirring his coffee with slow, deliberate motions, his grey eyes focused on nothing in particular. Across from him, Jeeny had a plate of fruit—papaya, pineapple, and dragonfruit, the colors vivid against the white porcelain.

Host: The morning felt simple. But underneath that simplicity, as always, something waited to be unraveled.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You didn’t eat breakfast again.”

Jack: shrugs “Coffee’s enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before.”

Jack: “I’m consistent, at least.” He sips his coffee, smirking slightly. “You sound like my doctor.”

Jeeny: picking up a slice of pineapple “Robert Budi Hartono once said, ‘I don’t avoid any particular food. But I don’t eat too much.’ That’s wisdom, Jack. Balance—not denial.”

Jack: raises an eyebrow “You’re quoting a billionaire to talk about breakfast?”

Jeeny: “I’m quoting a man who built an empire without losing his restraint. That’s rare. Everyone talks about indulgence these days, but he talked about control.”

Host: The light through the window shifted, catching the steam rising from their cups. The café’s radio played something old and low—an Indonesian love song from another decade, its melody both sad and peaceful.

Jack: “Restraint’s overrated. Life’s short. If you want something, you take it. That’s how you move forward.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “No, that’s how you burn out. Look around you, Jack—half the people chasing success are exhausted. They eat too much, spend too much, work too much, love too much. Balance isn’t just about food—it’s about survival.”

Jack: “And yet the world belongs to those who don’t hold back. You think Hartono became one of the richest men in Indonesia by stopping halfway through his meal?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He became rich because he knew when to stop. That’s what you’re missing.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, light but sharp. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if her calmness was both infuriating and fascinating.

Jack: “So you’re saying moderation is the secret to everything?”

Jeeny: “Not moderation—awareness. Knowing when enough is enough. That’s not weakness. It’s wisdom.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But tell that to someone starving for opportunity. Tell it to the ones who have to take more just to survive.”

Jeeny: “And yet even they know the line. Take too much, and it consumes you. Look at greed, Jack—it never ends with satisfaction. It ends with ruin. The 2008 crisis, corporate scandals, corruption—too much of anything kills balance. Even ambition.”

Jack: his tone softening slightly “So restraint is morality to you?”

Jeeny: “No, it’s humanity. We live in a world that tells us to consume—to eat, to earn, to own. But the moment you stop, the moment you say ‘this is enough,’ that’s when you start living.”

Host: A pause. The waiter passed by, setting a small plate of croissants on their table. The butter still glistened from the oven, filling the air with a warm, tempting scent. Jack looked at it, almost amused by the irony.

Jack: grins “So what—if I eat this, I’m morally compromised?”

Jeeny: smiling “No. But if you eat all of it, maybe.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous philosophy for a place that sells pastries.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s also the secret to peace.”

Host: Jack broke the croissant in half, the crisp sound cutting through their quiet corner. He handed her one piece. She took it without hesitation.

Jack: “You really think balance is what gives people peace?”

Jeeny: “I think excess hides emptiness. People fill the void with noise, food, money, control—anything to distract themselves. But simplicity… simplicity gives you space to feel.”

Jack: staring out the window “Funny. You make less sound like more.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Think about it—Hartono didn’t avoid food. He didn’t deny life’s pleasures. He just respected them enough not to drown in them. There’s strength in that.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, then heavier. Outside, people hurried under umbrellas, laughing, rushing, living. Inside, time slowed.

Jack: “I used to think control was just fear dressed up in virtue. You know, people too afraid to lose themselves, so they pretend they’re wise.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s true for some. But real control isn’t fear—it’s freedom. You choose, instead of being chosen by your desires.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve mastered it.”

Jeeny: looks down, smiling sadly “No. I’ve just learned the cost of not trying.”

Host: Jack watched her for a long moment. Something in her tone—quiet, regretful—shifted the air between them. The café felt smaller suddenly, more intimate, like confession.

Jack: “You’re talking about your brother, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: nodding softly “He lived fast. Ate too much, worked too much, wanted everything at once. He said, ‘I’ll slow down when I’m successful.’ But success came, and he never slowed. His heart gave out before his spirit did.”

Jack: lowers his voice “I’m sorry.”

Jeeny: “Don’t be. He taught me what enough means. It’s not a limit—it’s a gift.”

Host: The rain outside lightened, turning to a soft drizzle. The sunlight began to filter through the clouds again, painting the café in a warm, forgiving glow.

Jack: quietly “So that’s what this is all about. Not avoiding life—but not devouring it either.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t need to run from pleasure. You just need to meet it halfway.”

Jack: smiles faintly “That’s… difficult for someone like me.”

Jeeny: grinning now “Then start with breakfast.”

Host: He looked at the remaining piece of croissant, then at her. The smile that formed on his lips wasn’t the cynical one she was used to—it was small, almost tender.

Jack: “Maybe I will.” He takes a bite. “But only half.”

Jeeny: “Progress.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then—their laughter mingling with the sound of the city waking. The street vendors were opening, the smell of fried noodles and sweet coffee drifting through the open doors.

Host: Outside, the world was alive with both hunger and restraint. People moving, wanting, balancing—each in their own quiet way.

Host: And inside the café, beneath the warmth of a soft morning sun, two souls learned the same quiet truth Robert Budi Hartono had lived by:

That life is not about denial or indulgence—
but about knowing the beauty of enough.