I'm very good at ordering off the menu and eating food that other

Host: The evening sky over the terrace café was painted in lavender and soft gold, the city’s hum a gentle undercurrent below. The table candles flickered, and the sound of cutlery and laughter mingled with the faint scent of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread.

Jack sat across from Jeeny, the table between them crowded with half-finished plates — grilled vegetables, pasta tangled with herbs, a basket of warm rolls. The last of the daylight caught in Jeeny’s hair as she sipped her wine, her expression glowing with quiet amusement.

Jeeny: grinning “Kelly Rutherford once said, ‘I’m very good at ordering off the menu and eating food that other people cook for me. My husband’s a fantastic cook. I always come with a good appetite!’”

Jack: chuckling “Now that’s my kind of philosophy. A woman after my own stomach.”

Jeeny: “It’s not just about food, Jack. It’s about trust. Letting someone else feed you — that’s intimacy, not laziness.”

Jack: “Intimacy? Please. It’s delegation.”

Jeeny: laughing “You would see it that way.”

Host: The waiter approached, placing a fresh dish between them — butter-slicked ravioli, its scent filling the air with warmth and comfort. The candlelight danced across their faces as the night deepened.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always admired people who can just enjoy what’s in front of them. I’m the guy who reads every item on the menu, second-guesses the waiter, and ends up wishing I’d ordered what someone else did.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have an appetite problem, Jack. You have a control problem.”

Jack: “Control problem? I call it curiosity.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the fear of surrender. Ordering off the menu means letting go — trusting that someone knows what you’ll love before you do.”

Jack: “You make dinner sound like a spiritual exercise.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Food is faith in physical form. You hand your hunger to someone else and hope they bring it back transformed.”

Host: A soft breeze moved through the terrace, rustling napkins, carrying laughter from the tables nearby. Jack forked a piece of ravioli, tasted it, and paused.

Jack: “Okay, I’ll admit — this is incredible.”

Jeeny: “See? Faith rewarded.”

Jack: “Or just good butter.”

Jeeny: smiling knowingly “Butter is faith, Jack. It’s the belief that even something simple can turn extraordinary with care.”

Host: The moonlight softened, silvering the plates. The world felt slower, warmer — like everything had been reduced to its essential ingredients: hunger, laughter, companionship.

Jack: “You really think there’s meaning in everything, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Meaning isn’t something you find, Jack. It’s something you taste — one small bite at a time.”

Jack: “I can’t tell if you’re profound or just really hungry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: The waiter returned, pouring more wine, the bottle catching the candle’s flame for a heartbeat. Jeeny leaned back, watching Jack, her expression both teasing and tender.

Jeeny: “You know what’s interesting about Rutherford’s quote? She didn’t just say she likes to eat — she said she comes with a good appetite. That’s not just hunger. That’s presence.”

Jack: “Presence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Appetite is the soul’s way of saying, ‘I’m here, and I’m ready for life.’ Most people walk through their days half-tasting things — their food, their work, even their relationships. But when you show up hungry, you’re showing up open.”

Jack: “So eating is a metaphor now?”

Jeeny: “It always has been. The table is where people remember they need each other.”

Host: The street musicians below began to play a slow tune — guitar strings, violin notes rising into the soft night. The music wove through their conversation, subtle and human.

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent years working like a man trying to earn his dinner. Maybe that’s why I’ve forgotten how to just enjoy it when it’s served.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight is your first lesson back.”

Jack: “Lesson one: order something without overthinking it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Trust the menu. Trust the cook. Trust that not every good thing requires effort.”

Host: Jack laughed, the sound deep and genuine. He raised his glass, clinking it lightly against hers.

Jack: “To trusting the chef.”

Jeeny: “And to showing up with an appetite.”

Host: They drank, the wine warm and smooth, the kind that carried more conversation than alcohol.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about people who eat with joy? They make the room feel fuller — not just from the food, but from their gratitude.”

Jack: “So you’re saying gratitude’s the secret ingredient.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: “And what about guilt? Everyone eats like they’re being watched by invisible judges.”

Jeeny: “Then stop feeding the judges. They don’t deserve dessert.”

Host: The candles flickered lower, the plates mostly empty, but the air between them was full — of laughter, of meaning, of that unspoken satisfaction that lingers after a good meal and an honest talk.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe life’s just a long dinner — some courses brilliant, some bland, some we never ordered.”

Jeeny: “And all we can do is keep our appetite.”

Jack: “Even when we’re not sure what’s coming next.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The musicians’ song slowed, the last notes stretching into the night. Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, content, the plates empty but the moment full.

The moon hung low, reflected in their glasses, and for a fleeting instant, it felt like everything — the city, the laughter, the hunger — had come together on one shared plate.

Host: And as they rose to leave, the waiter smiled, collecting their dishes, murmuring something in Italian that meant “a good appetite never ends.”

Jack looked at Jeeny, eyes soft, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s all life asks of us — to arrive hungry, stay grateful, and trust the hands that feed us.”

Host: And with that, they stepped out into the night, their footsteps light, their hearts fed, and the world, for once, tasting exactly as it should.