I generally only eat one meal a day, which is pretty unusual for

Host:
The restaurant was emptying slowly — chairs scraping, laughter fading, the hum of conversation settling into memory. Candlelight shimmered on the half-cleared tables, reflecting in the dark bottles and silver cutlery left scattered like artifacts after a feast. Outside, the city glowed, the streets slick with recent rain.

At a corner table by the window, Jack and Jeeny lingered over the last of their wine. Between them sat the remains of a meal — a plate with a single olive, crumbs of bread, and the quiet satisfaction that comes when appetite meets its proper ending.

Jeeny: “A. A. Gill once said — ‘I generally only eat one meal a day, which is pretty unusual for a restaurant reviewer. It's not that I have a problem with food; I'll eat anything that doesn't involve a bet, a dare, or an initiation ceremony.’”
Jack: [grinning] “That sounds exactly like him. Irreverent, witty, and probably true.”
Jeeny: “He made gluttony sound like philosophy.”
Jack: “Or sarcasm dressed as self-control.”
Jeeny: “Maybe both. I think what he really meant is that food, like pleasure, needs boundaries to be meaningful.”
Jack: “Boundaries? You sound like a nutritionist.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “No, like someone who’s watched people gorge on everything but gratitude.”

Host:
The waiter passed by, placing the check discreetly on the edge of their table. A faint jazz tune drifted through the air — slow, nostalgic, the kind that pairs best with half-finished sentences.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always admired people like Gill. They turn eating into an art form. But one meal a day? That’s asceticism disguised as indulgence.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe the opposite — indulgence disguised as restraint.”
Jack: “Explain.”
Jeeny: “If you only eat once, you pay attention. Every bite counts. You turn necessity into ceremony.”
Jack: “So deprivation becomes devotion.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. A kind of secular prayer made with cutlery.”
Jack: “You think he meant it that deeply?”
Jeeny: “With Gill, everything ironic was sincere underneath.”

Host:
Outside, a cab splashed through a puddle, its reflection rippling across the window like liquid gold. Jack leaned back, swirling the last sip of wine in his glass, eyes glinting with amusement.

Jack: “I like that bit — ‘anything that doesn’t involve a bet, a dare, or an initiation ceremony.’ You can almost hear him rolling his eyes at human excess.”
Jeeny: “Because food is supposed to nourish, not prove.”
Jack: “But we’ve turned it into spectacle. Eating contests, viral challenges, absurd trends.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. We eat for performance now — not hunger.”
Jack: “And hunger’s the only honest critic.”
Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack.”
Jack: “It’s true. You can’t fake hunger. You can fake taste, though — especially if you’re trying to impress someone.”
Jeeny: [smirking] “Is that why you pretended to enjoy the oyster course earlier?”
Jack: “Touché.”

Host:
The sound of laughter from a nearby table drifted over, light and fleeting. The rain tapped again on the window, more gently now, as if the night itself were easing into digestion.

Jeeny: “You know, people think restaurant critics are just spoiled eaters, but Gill’s line reminds me — they’re philosophers of appetite. They eat to understand culture.”
Jack: “Culture, yes. But also vanity. Every plate is a mirror for the civilization that made it.”
Jeeny: “And every bite is a confession.”
Jack: “What would this meal say about us, then?”
Jeeny: [glancing at the table] “That we value conversation more than dessert.”
Jack: “So we’re mature now.”
Jeeny: “Or just full.”

Host:
The lights dimmed, the waitstaff began resetting tables, the quiet ritual of endings performed with gentle precision. The smell of lemon, butter, and faint smoke lingered in the air, like memory refusing to leave.

Jack: “You know, I get Gill’s point. One meal a day makes sense. It’s not about control — it’s about respect. Eat once, but make it worth the day.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because constant consumption dulls appreciation. Scarcity sharpens it.”
Jack: “So hunger is part of taste.”
Jeeny: “Absolutely. Hunger teaches humility — it keeps pleasure honest.”
Jack: “And gluttony makes beauty meaningless.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the same with life. You can’t appreciate moments if you’re always stuffing yourself with more.”

Host:
Jack set down his glass, and for a brief moment, silence filled the space between them — not awkward, but intimate. The kind of silence that digests more than food.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Gill’s humor hides melancholy. That line about bets and initiation ceremonies — it’s him admitting he’s seen people turn joy into punishment.”
Jack: “Because when you stop eating for pleasure, you start eating for ego.”
Jeeny: “And ego never tastes good.”
Jack: “You think he was lonely?”
Jeeny: “Probably. All critics are. They sit between creation and consumption, belonging to neither.”
Jack: “So one meal a day wasn’t discipline — it was survival.”
Jeeny: “Or control in a world that keeps consuming itself.”

Host:
The neon sign outside flickered, its reflection bending across the glass: OPEN LATE. But the street was nearly empty now — just rain, and one lone figure closing an umbrella, stepping into the night.

Jack looked at Jeeny, something tender behind his usual irony.

Jack: “You ever notice how food reveals character? The way someone eats says more than what they say.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The rushed ones fear silence. The picky ones fear imperfection. The indulgent ones fear emptiness.”
Jack: “And us?”
Jeeny: “We savor. Which means we’re still learning to love without hurrying.”
Jack: “That’s the best kind of appetite.”
Jeeny: “The only kind that lasts.”

Host:
The rain had stopped, leaving the city wrapped in clean stillness. The waiter returned, smiling politely, ready to close the night. Jack placed cash on the tray, then stood, stretching — his movements slow, content.

They stepped out into the night, the pavement glistening, the air cool with promise. The restaurant’s lights glowed behind them like the memory of a good story — rich, funny, finished but not forgotten.

And as they walked down the quiet street,
the truth of A. A. Gill’s words shimmered between their laughter —

that appetite, like art,
is not about abundance but attention.

That eating — truly eating — is less about hunger
and more about awareness:
the warmth of the room,
the rhythm of a fork against china,
the conversation that lingers longer than the taste.

And that the best meals,
like the best lives,
need no dare,
no ceremony,
no performance —
only the quiet courage
to savor what is before us,

once a day, and fully.