I like food. I like eating.

Host: The street was alive — the kind of urban hum that happens only at night, when the world relaxes its posture and starts to breathe again. Neon signs buzzed in pinks and greens above the tiny ramen shop on the corner, steam spilling out from its open door like a quiet invitation. The smell of soy, ginger, and grilled meat drifted down the alley, wrapping itself around the night air.

Inside, Jack sat at the counter, chopsticks in hand, a bowl of ramen so large it looked like a dare. Across from him, Jeeny leaned over her own dish, blowing gently on her noodles, her eyes half-closed in the comfort of something warm, simple, and real.

Host: The radio played softly in the background — an old jazz tune that sounded like rain finding rhythm.

Jeeny: grinning “You know what Tony Ferguson once said? ‘I like food. I like eating.’”

Jack: snorts, mouth full “That’s it? That’s the quote?”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it.”

Jack: swallows “The man discovered the obvious.”

Jeeny: “No. The man admitted the obvious. There’s a difference.”

Host: The chef, an old man with a white apron and the calm patience of someone who’s seen everything, chuckled quietly behind the counter.

Jeeny: “Think about it. We turn everything into philosophy, work, progress — even food. Diets, macros, guilt. But Ferguson? He stripped it back to the joy of it. I like food. I like eating. That’s a manifesto of presence.”

Jack: “You’re telling me chewing is enlightenment now?”

Jeeny: “If you do it right, yes.”

Host: The steam curled around their faces, carrying with it the scent of broth and spice. The city outside kept humming, but inside the little ramen shop, time slowed to a flavor.

Jack: leans back, smirking “You know, people like you romanticize everything. Not everything has to mean something.”

Jeeny: “And people like you drain the meaning out of everything.”

Jack: grins “Touché.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s simple, Jack. Maybe Ferguson wasn’t trying to sound profound. Maybe he was just grateful.”

Jack: “For noodles?”

Jeeny: “For life. For the small things that remind us it’s worth being here.”

Host: The sound of sizzling pork filled the air, and for a moment, even Jack stopped arguing.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We eat three times a day, and still we treat it like a side activity — something to do between meetings, or while scrolling.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what he was pushing against, whether he meant to or not. Food’s the most human thing we do — to taste, to enjoy, to share. And yet we’ve managed to turn even that into guilt and distraction.”

Jack: takes another bite, slower this time “So you’re saying ‘I like eating’ is basically an act of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. A quiet rebellion. Against speed. Against control.”

Host: Jeeny’s chopsticks hovered midair for a moment as she spoke, her tone soft but steady, like she was revealing a secret disguised as simplicity.

Jeeny: “You see, eating is one of the few times the world asks nothing of you except that you be here. To taste. To feel. To exist without multitasking.”

Jack: “You really can turn dinner into a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Only when it’s good.”

Host: The chef placed a fresh plate of gyoza between them, the oil still crackling. The light above the counter flickered once, then steadied — the room a warm cocoon against the restless night.

Jack: picking one up “You think that’s why comfort food exists? Because it reminds us what simplicity tastes like?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s nostalgia for a moment we actually paid attention.”

Jack: after a pause “You ever notice how when you’re happy, food tastes richer?”

Jeeny: “Because you’re actually tasting it. You’re there for it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So maybe the quote isn’t stupid after all.”

Jeeny: “It never was. It’s just honest. The world needs more of that.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened — the way they did when the walls around his cynicism cracked just enough for light to seep through.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom used to make pancakes every Sunday. I didn’t care if they were burned or cold. I just liked… the sound. The smell. The waiting. It wasn’t about food. It was about belonging.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Food’s just the doorway. What we walk into is memory.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s why people eat when they’re sad. It’s a way to come home.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why people cook for those they love. It’s not about the taste. It’s about saying, ‘You still belong somewhere.’”

Host: The rain began outside — a soft, steady drizzle against the neon. Inside, the small shop glowed warmer, brighter.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is… Tony Ferguson wasn’t talking about food.”

Jeeny: grinning “He was talking about being alive.”

Jack: “I like that.”

Jeeny: “I like eating.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound mingling with the hiss of the grill, the rhythm of the rain, and the low hum of music that filled the quiet spaces between words.

Host: Jack finished his bowl, leaned back, and let out a deep, contented sigh — the universal sound of small happiness.

Jeeny: “See? There it is.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The afterglow of being here.”

Host: The camera panned out — the ramen shop glowing like a lantern in the storm, the two of them framed by warmth and ordinary joy. Outside, life kept rushing, but in that tiny corner of the city, time stayed still.

Because Tony Ferguson was right —
sometimes happiness isn’t a philosophy or a goal.
Sometimes it’s just a bowl of soup shared with someone who listens,
the quiet permission to slow down,
and the humble truth that to love being alive
is to say simply —

“I like food. I like eating.”

Host: And in that, there is nothing small at all.