On the Continent people have good food; in England people have

Host: The evening mist settled gently over London, veiling the streets in soft grey melancholy. Through the drizzle, the golden lamps of an old bistro glowed like small promises — the kind that warm you just enough to forget the weather. Inside, the air was fragrant with roasted garlic, rain-damp wool, and quiet laughter.

At a small table by the window sat Jack and Jeeny — two travelers in conversation, their plates half-finished, their wine half-gone. Outside, umbrellas danced past like dark flowers in the fog. Inside, time itself seemed to hesitate between sophistication and hunger.

Jeeny: (smiling, reading from her notebook) “George Mikes once said, ‘On the Continent people have good food; in England people have good table manners.’”

Jack: (grinning) “He wasn’t wrong. I’ve had English pudding that could double as plaster.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you keep eating it.”

Jack: “For the same reason I keep watching tragedies — it’s tradition. And tradition tastes like habit, even when it’s bland.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “You sound like a man raised on politeness instead of pleasure.”

Jack: “I was. My father believed flavor was a moral weakness. He said, ‘Better dull and proper than rich and sinful.’”

Jeeny: “That’s not morality, Jack — that’s culinary purgatory.”

Host: The waiter passed by — a thin young man with a perfectly knotted tie and an expression of restrained disapproval, as though joy itself were a breach of etiquette. Jack smirked at him, then leaned closer to Jeeny, lowering his voice like a conspirator.

Jack: “That’s England for you — a nation that apologizes when it rains, but refuses to season its food.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Mikes meant — that manners became a substitute for passion. Where the Continent lives to taste, England lives to endure.”

Jack: “Ah, endurance — the English national pastime. Tea in catastrophe, politeness in despair.”

Jeeny: “And roast beef in every emotional crisis.”

Host: The fireplace in the corner crackled faintly, casting a soft amber glow over their table. The wine glasses shimmered, the sound of gentle rain tapping against the window becoming a rhythmic counterpoint to their laughter.

Jack: “You know, Mikes was Hungarian — which means he grew up where food was an affair, not a ritual. When he came here, he must’ve thought he’d entered a monastery run by waiters.”

Jeeny: “Or a kingdom where the tongue was trained to obey, not enjoy.”

Jack: (raising his glass) “To the English tongue, then — disciplined, restrained, tragically sober.”

Jeeny: (clinking her glass) “And to the Continental stomach — rebellious, loud, gloriously alive.”

Host: Their laughter rippled softly through the small bistro, drawing a frown from the elderly couple at the next table. Jeeny caught their glance and smiled mischievously.

Jeeny: “See? Even joy is indecent if it’s too audible.”

Jack: “In England, pleasure must whisper. Anything louder than polite contentment is a revolution.”

Jeeny: “And yet, revolutions always start at the table.”

Jack: (intrigued) “Go on.”

Jeeny: “Think about it — France, 1789. People starving while nobles dine on silver. Italy’s unification fueled by coffeehouse debates and red wine. Even the American Revolution began over tea, didn’t it?”

Jack: “So, civilization collapses whenever someone messes with a meal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Food isn’t just sustenance — it’s identity. On the Continent, eating well is an act of pride. Here, restraint is the virtue. They dine not to indulge, but to prove their composure.”

Jack: “A culture that praises the fork more than the flavor.”

Jeeny: “And sees pleasure as something to apologize for.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming against the windows like impatient applause. The waiter returned, asking softly if they wanted dessert.

Jack: (without hesitation) “Sticky toffee pudding.”

Jeeny: “Chocolate soufflé, please.”

The waiter blinked, frowned slightly at her choice — too French, perhaps — and walked away.

Jeeny: “See? Even dessert is diplomacy.”

Jack: “Everything is diplomacy in England. Even heartbreak is served with a spoon.”

Jeeny: (smiling wistfully) “And yet, there’s a strange beauty in it. All that repression hides a deep well of tenderness. The English heart is quiet, but it loves fiercely — it just doesn’t know where to put the words.”

Jack: (softly) “So it puts them in manners.”

Jeeny: “Yes. In how they pour the tea. In how they say sorry before they mean it. In how they choose understatement over confession.”

Host: The desserts arrived — steaming, perfect in presentation. Jeeny’s soufflé rose like a promise; Jack’s pudding gleamed like a relic of endurance. The first bite filled the air with the faintest sigh — a small rebellion against politeness.

Jack: (eyes widening slightly) “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s actually good.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Even England learns pleasure eventually.”

Jack: “Or steals it from France.”

Jeeny: “Borrowing. Civilization’s oldest recipe.”

Host: They ate in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling — comfortable, flavorful, human.

Outside, the rain softened, the world settling into its late-night rhythm. The city lights shimmered in puddles like spilled champagne.

Jeeny: (thoughtfully) “You know, Mikes wasn’t just teasing. He was observing a paradox — that manners can exist without joy, and joy can exist without manners. But when they meet, something truly beautiful happens.”

Jack: “A meal that tastes like grace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “So maybe good food teaches humility, and good manners teach restraint. Together, they make civilization bearable.”

Jeeny: “And separate, they make it absurd.”

Host: The fireplace sighed one last ember, and the waiter began dimming the lights. The world outside was quiet now, London’s elegance retreating into its soft, reflective gloom.

Jack: (raising his glass again) “To George Mikes, who taught us that wit is the spice England forgot to use.”

Jeeny: “And to Europe — where flavor forgives all sins.”

Host: They toasted softly. The sound of the glasses — delicate, precise — was the perfect meeting of continents: reason and pleasure, form and flavor, head and heart.

And as the final candle flickered out, George Mikes’s words lingered in the dim glow like an aftertaste of irony and truth —

That manners without warmth
are as empty as meals without flavor.
That a culture’s soul is not found in its etiquette,
but in the taste it leaves behind.

Host: The rain began again — gentle this time, almost forgiving.
The city slept.
And inside that quiet bistro,
two souls finished their dessert,
each savoring the small, secret joy
of being both civilized
and alive.