I think one big thing with food and race that is a hot topic is

Host: The restaurant was closed, but the smell of spice and smoke still lingered in the air — the ghosts of dinner conversations and unspoken memories. Outside, rain drummed softly against the windows; inside, the dim light from the kitchen painted the stainless steel in hues of amber and fatigue.

Jack leaned on the counter, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Jeeny sat on a barstool across from him, a half-eaten bowl of curry in front of her — fragrant, golden, alive. Steam rose between them like a question that refused to cool.

Jeeny: “Sohla El-Waylly said, ‘I think one big thing with food and race that is a hot topic is cultural appropriation.’”

Jack: (sighs) “Ah, that one. You can’t even make a taco anymore without someone accusing you of colonizing it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people forget that recipes carry histories — not just flavors. When you take without understanding, you erase what fed it.”

Jack: “Or maybe you honor it by sharing it. Food isn’t a flag, Jeeny. It’s universal currency. The whole point of eating is connection.”

Jeeny: “Connection without context is consumption.”

Jack: “And context without curiosity is gatekeeping.”

Host: The rain intensified, a rhythmic percussion that filled the spaces between their words. The kitchen lights flickered, and the smell of garlic and turmeric thickened, like the air itself had joined their debate.

Jeeny: “It’s not about banning fusion, Jack. It’s about intention. When a white chef gets praised for a dish their grandmother never touched while the immigrant family down the street can’t get a loan for their restaurant — that’s not appreciation. That’s theft dressed up as trend.”

Jack: “But where’s the line? You can’t trademark flavor. Every cuisine was born from someone else’s influence — trade, migration, war. Italian food came from tomatoes, and tomatoes came from the Americas. We’ve all been stealing and seasoning since the dawn of fire.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But there’s a difference between borrowing and bulldozing. Between honoring and profiting.”

Jack: “And who decides which is which?”

Jeeny: “The people who were silenced when the story got retold.”

Host: Jack swirled the whiskey, watching the amber whirlpool spin. His reflection wavered — distorted, thoughtful. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her conviction sharpened like a blade honed on memory.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it means when a dish that was once mocked becomes fashionable only when it’s made by someone with the right accent?”

Jack: “You mean like sushi used to be ‘weird’ until celebrities started eating it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Or when Southern Black cooking gets called ‘soul food’ in one context and ‘unhealthy’ in another. Food tells stories — and who gets to tell them determines whose humanity is seen.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying food carries power.”

Jeeny: “It always has. Bread started revolutions.”

Jack: “But if food has power, doesn’t that mean we all have the right to wield it? To reinterpret it?”

Jeeny: “You can reinterpret it — but you have to remember it first.”

Host: A pot clanged softly in the background as if punctuating the thought. The clock on the wall ticked, steady, indifferent, measuring the tempo of their truths.

Jack: “You know, I used to think cultural appropriation was just political correctness run amok. But now…” (he pauses) “now I think maybe it’s just people asking to be seen — asking to not have their heritage turned into a costume.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not outrage — it’s remembrance. Food is memory you can taste.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that make the kitchen a battlefield? Every spice a symbol, every plate a manifesto?”

Jeeny: “It already is. Every immigrant mother has fought wars in kitchens you’ll never read about.”

Jack: “You’re poetic tonight.”

Jeeny: “No. Just hungry — for justice that tastes fair.”

Host: Jeeny picked up a spoon, stirred the curry, and took a bite. The steam curled upward, fragrant with cumin, coriander, ginger — flavors that traveled centuries to arrive in that moment. Jack watched, then reached over and took a bite himself.

Jack: “It’s good.”

Jeeny: “It should be. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

Jack: (smiling) “You didn’t tell me that before. Would’ve made me nervous.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because then I’d be aware of the history sitting in my mouth.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the whole point.”

Host: Their laughter mingled with the rain’s rhythm, but beneath it lay something deeper — a recognition of how fragile belonging can be, how easily taste turns into territory.

Jack: “So, what about the idea that culture should evolve? That maybe all food, all art, is a remix?”

Jeeny: “Of course it’s a remix. But the difference between remixing and robbing is credit — and care. You can’t remix someone’s culture if you’ve never listened to its song.”

Jack: “So, we’re talking ethics, not cuisine.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t talk about flavor without talking about power. Whose hands picked the ingredients? Whose table never got served?”

Jack: “You think about that every time you eat?”

Jeeny: “Every time I taste privilege disguised as palate.”

Host: The lights dimmed further. The city outside pulsed in color — red, blue, gold — reflections moving like memories across the restaurant walls. The steam rose one last time from the bowl between them, carrying stories older than both of them combined.

Jack: “You know, I used to think cooking was just about feeding people. But now it feels like telling history one bite at a time.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is. When you cook, you’re saying: I was here. I mattered.”

Jack: “And when someone takes that story without credit?”

Jeeny: “They turn nourishment into noise.”

Jack: “So how do we fix it?”

Jeeny: “By eating responsibly. Not just with our mouths, but with our minds.”

Host: The rain slowed, a thin whisper against the glass. The two sat in silence, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the faint echo of the world beyond their small island of light.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “We talk about cultural appropriation like it’s modern, but it’s ancient. Every empire tried to swallow someone else’s story. The difference is — now we can choose to share instead.”

Jack: “To share, not steal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To taste without taking.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the real recipe — balance.”

Jeeny: “Balance and gratitude.”

Jack: “And humility?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The camera pans out, rising slowly above the dim kitchen, where two figures sit surrounded by the remnants of a shared meal — steam fading, conversation lingering.

The world outside continues — neon, wet, relentless — but here, in this small space, something sacred simmers quietly: understanding.

Host (softly): “Food, like art, like culture, is not possession. It’s participation.”

And as the light fades, the final image lingers:
a bowl half-empty, a conversation half-finished,
and the unspoken truth that what we eat
is never just food —
it’s history made edible.