If the first bite is with the eye and the second with the nose

Host: The restaurant kitchen breathed like a living beast — full of steam, flame, and the sharp clatter of knives against boards. Aromas swirled through the air, layered like memories: garlic meeting lemon, fish stock whispering beneath roasted herbs, yeast rising softly from the oven’s open mouth. Outside, rain drummed against the alley walls — a quiet percussion to the orchestra within.

Jack stood near the counter, sleeves rolled, knife in hand, his grey eyes reflecting the restless light of the gas flame. Jeeny sat opposite him, at the edge of the steel worktable, a notebook open, her fingers tracing words written by Yotam Ottolenghi:

“If the first bite is with the eye and the second with the nose, some people will never take that third, actual bite if the food in question smells too fishy, fermented or cheesy.”

Host: The quote hovered between them like steam — invisible yet undeniable.

Jack: (chopping rhythmically)
“So Ottolenghi’s saying people don’t eat what they don’t like the look or smell of. That’s just human nature. We trust instinct — it keeps us alive.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head, voice soft but deliberate)
“Or it keeps us afraid. Maybe the instinct that once saved us now traps us. The things that smell too strong, look too strange — those are often the ones that hold the most depth, the most surprise. We live in a world that throws away flavor for comfort.”

Host: Jack paused, his knife hovering, a small smirk ghosting across his lips.

Jack:
“Comfort sells. That’s the rule. Restaurants, politics, even relationships — people want what feels familiar. They want pasta, not fermented tofu. A safe partner, not a mystery. Ottolenghi’s just pointing out that we’re guided by perception — and perception is evolution’s best design.”

Jeeny:
“Evolution isn’t perfection, Jack — it’s habit. And habit dulls curiosity. Every culture that’s ever grown did so by tasting something once thought inedible. The tomato was once considered poisonous. Sushi was mocked for rawness. Cheese? Mold. Yet now they’re delicacies. What changed wasn’t the food — it was our courage.”

Host: The oven door slammed, releasing a burst of heat that washed over them. The lights flickered briefly, and the scent of roasted peppers filled the room like sunlight trapped in a dish.

Jack: (leaning on the counter, voice cool but edged)
“You talk about courage like it’s seasoning — just sprinkle some and everything tastes profound. But people don’t live in test kitchens, Jeeny. They live with risk. A bad meal can make you sick. A bad choice can ruin your life. Sometimes the nose knows when to walk away.”

Jeeny: (eyes narrowing, tone rising)
“Or maybe fear dresses itself up as wisdom. You think avoiding what smells unfamiliar keeps you safe, but it keeps you small. You can’t discover new worlds on a diet of old flavors. The same rule applies to life — if you never take that ‘third bite,’ you’ll never really live.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the sound of the rain growing louder, like the sky itself leaned in to listen.

Jack:
“You’re turning a quote about food into a sermon about life again.”

Jeeny:
“Because they’re the same. Cooking is philosophy made edible. Look at Ottolenghi’s line — it’s about how we experience the world. The first bite is with the eye — judgment. The second with the nose — fear. The third, the actual taste — that’s truth. Most people never reach truth because they stop at fear.”

Host: The flame flickered, catching the edge of Jack’s knife, making it gleam like argument turned to metal.

Jack:
“Truth doesn’t always taste good. Some things are bitter for a reason. Some smells warn us — like rot, deceit, danger. You call it fear; I call it instinct honed by survival. Not everything that’s rejected deserves redemption.”

Jeeny: (voice trembling with conviction)
“Maybe. But how many wonders have we thrown away because they didn’t look like beauty at first glance? How many people? How many ideas? History is full of flavors we nearly starved ourselves of because they offended our first bite.”

Host: The steam rose between them, blurring faces, softening edges — a haze of unspoken questions.

Jack:
“You think every strange taste is a hidden treasure. But some things are just bad, Jeeny. You can dress it up in poetry, but not all bitterness carries meaning.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, her voice almost breaking)
“No — but some do. The first time I tried blue cheese, I nearly spat it out. It was too strong, too alive. But then something happened — I realized that behind that smell was complexity, something wild and human and ancient. It’s the same with people, Jack. Sometimes the ones who smell too real are the ones who’ve lived the most.”

Host: Silence. Only the rain’s slow applause filled the space. Jack’s eyes softened, his expression shifting from argument to thought.

Jack:
“So you’re saying authenticity stinks.”

Jeeny: (smiling through the heaviness)
“Yes. Real things do. They carry the scent of effort, of decay, of life fermenting into something more. Maybe that’s what Ottolenghi meant — that our senses protect us, but they also blind us. We reject what reminds us of mortality, of imperfection. We chase sanitized flavors and lose the art of tasting.”

Host: Jack set down the knife, wiping his hands slowly, his breathing steady.

Jack:
“You might be right. I’ve seen that in business — people reject ideas just because they don’t look clean, safe, digestible. They want pretty concepts, not messy truths.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. And yet the messy truths — the fermented, the fishy, the pungent — those are what nourish us. They last longer. They teach us resilience.”

Host: The oven beeped, cutting through the tension. Jeeny stood and opened it, revealing a tray of baked eggplant, the edges dark, the scent both sweet and smoky. She placed it on the counter, steam curling upward like a prayer.

Jeeny: (quietly)
“Here. Try this.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow)
“What’s in it?”

Jeeny:
“Eggplant, tahini, garlic, pomegranate — and a little fermented miso. Smells odd, I know.”

Host: Jack hesitated, his fingers hovering, as if touching something sacred and uncertain. Then, slowly, he took a bite.

The texture softened, the flavors collided — smoke, salt, and faint sweetness — unfolding like a conversation that refuses to end too soon.

Jack: (after a long silence)
“That’s… unexpected.”

Jeeny:
“Good or bad?”

Jack:
“Neither. Just… real. It grows on you.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, not triumphantly but tenderly, as if she’d been waiting not for his praise, but for his openness.

Jeeny:
“That’s the third bite, Jack. The one that teaches you something.”

Host: He looked at her, eyes still thoughtful, the storm easing outside, the rain’s rhythm fading to a soft hum.

Jack:
“You know, maybe our senses aren’t just barriers — maybe they’re gates. You just have to choose which ones to walk through.”

Jeeny:
“And not be afraid of the smell on the other side.”

Host: The kitchen fell quiet, save for the faint crackle of the cooling oven. The steam rose and thinned, curling into the air like a memory finally released.

Outside, the rain stopped, and through the small window above the sink, a sliver of moonlight slipped in — silver on steel, soft on skin.

Jeeny reached for another piece of eggplant, and Jack joined her. They ate slowly, without words.

Host: Because in that silence, beneath the layers of scent and texture and warmth, both understood what Ottolenghi had meant:

That the first bite is judgment, the second fear, but the third — the true one — is understanding.

And in life, as in food, most never stay long enough to taste it.