People often ask what my favourite food is, but the answer

Host: The afternoon sun slanted through the café window, spilling long golden streaks across worn wooden tables and half-empty cups. The hum of conversation, the faint clatter of spoons, and the smell of freshly baked bread hung in the air like a gentle melody.

Jack sat in his usual corner — coat draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on a menu he had no intention of reading. Across from him, Jeeny was already halfway through a slice of apple tart, her fork moving rhythmically, like someone lost in thought but anchored by sweetness.

Outside, autumn leaves twirled across the pavement, a quiet ballet of change and color.

Jeeny: “You’re staring at that menu like it’s a moral dilemma.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Maybe it is. Too many choices for one stomach. Feels like a metaphor for life.”

Host: His voice carried its usual rough humor, that blend of cynicism and charm. The light caught the edge of his grey eyes, giving them a steel-blue glint that almost matched the silverware beside him.

Jeeny: “Prue Leith once said something about that — about how your favorite food depends on what you just ate. If you’ve had sausages and mash, then next you want crab salad. It’s funny, isn’t it? How what we love keeps changing.”

Jack: (snorting softly) “That’s not funny. That’s biology. People crave variety. Evolution programmed us that way — to get bored, to move on. Even your taste buds get tired of loyalty.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that beautiful, too? That we keep searching for new flavors, new experiences? It’s what keeps us alive, curious.”

Jack: “Or restless. Never satisfied. Always wanting the next thing. That’s why marriages fail, Jeeny. That’s why people change jobs, houses, even gods — same hunger, different plates.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed, but her smile remained, soft and knowing. The waiter passed by, placing a steaming pot of tea on their table. The aroma wrapped around them like a small, comforting fog.

Jeeny: “You think wanting change makes us shallow?”

Jack: “I think it makes us weak. Can’t even decide what we love. Today it’s passion, tomorrow it’s comfort. One week, you’re swearing by sausages and mash; next week, you’re singing odes to crab salad. We’re creatures of appetite, not conviction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe conviction isn’t meant to be constant, Jack. Maybe it grows, shifts — like our tastes. Why should the heart be less flexible than the tongue?”

Jack: “Because the heart’s supposed to mean something. If you love everything in turn, you love nothing deeply.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her eyes shimmering in the soft light, her voice carrying that quiet fire that always made Jack uneasy.

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Loving many things doesn’t make love shallow — it makes it vast. It means you’re awake enough to notice the beauty in change. You can still love sausages and mash — just as you can still miss them while you’re eating crab salad.”

Jack: (smirking) “You make even dinner sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Everything is, if you pay attention.”

Host: The tea steamed gently between them, small swirls rising like ghosts of warmth. Jack reached for his cup, staring at the ripples that trembled across the surface.

Jack: “You really believe in that? That people can love change without losing themselves?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Think about it — we grow, we travel, we fall, we heal. Each time, we’re someone slightly new. The world doesn’t ask us to stay the same. Only fear does.”

Jack: “So you’re saying it’s okay to be fickle?”

Jeeny: “Not fickle. Human. There’s a difference.”

Host: The sound of a fork tapping against porcelain punctuated the silence that followed. Outside, a breeze stirred the leaves, scattering them in soft whirls across the street.

Jack: “You know, that reminds me of when I was a kid. My mother made the same meal every Sunday — roast chicken, potatoes, and peas. She said it was ‘tradition.’ I thought it was prison. Took me years to realize she found peace in repetition — that it gave her control in a world that never stayed still.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe that’s her version of sausages and mash.”

Jack: “Maybe. But for me, it was a warning — that routine kills wonder. I promised myself I’d never eat the same thing twice in a row.”

Jeeny: “And has it worked? Have you found wonder in your crab salads?”

Host: Jack laughed, a sound rough around the edges but genuine. His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing.

Jack: “Sometimes. But sometimes I just feel tired. Like I’m chasing flavors that disappear before I can taste them properly.”

Jeeny: “That’s because satisfaction isn’t in the food — it’s in the savoring. You can eat the same thing every day and still find something new in it if you’re present.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s worth it. Think of it like love — you can spend a lifetime with one person and still discover new flavors of them every day. Or you can keep changing partners and never taste anything deeply enough to remember it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lingered on her face, the flicker of light from the window catching the outline of her lips as she spoke. There was something about her — the way she could make even the simplest words feel like revelations.

Jack: “So you’re saying Prue Leith’s right — it’s not about the food, it’s about what it mirrors in us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Our appetites tell our stories. What we crave, what we avoid, what we come back to — it’s all just memory in disguise.”

Host: A pause settled between them, comfortable and warm. The tea cooled. The sunlight softened into amber as the day leaned toward evening.

Jack: “You know, there’s something oddly comforting about that. The idea that even if my tastes change, it doesn’t mean I’m lost — it means I’m alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it, Jack. Change isn’t the opposite of consistency; it’s the rhythm of it. Like breathing — in, out. Wanting, letting go. Sausages today, crab salad tomorrow — but it’s still you eating.”

Jack: (chuckling) “And what if someday I stop wanting both?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s when you finally taste peace.”

Host: The last light of the day fell across the table, washing everything in gold. Outside, the streetlights began to glow, their reflections rippling across the glass like melted honey.

Jack pushed the menu aside, a small, genuine smile spreading across his face.

Jack: “Alright then. Let’s order. Surprise me, Jeeny — pick whatever feels right now.”

Jeeny: (with a teasing smile) “Careful. I might order crab salad.”

Jack: “Then I’ll learn to love it.”

Host: Their laughter mingled with the quiet music drifting through the café, a soft, timeless sound.

As the evening deepened, the city outside blurred into shades of gold and violet. Inside, amid steam, light, and laughter, two souls found the simple truth in Prue Leith’s words — that life’s flavor isn’t in what we choose, but in the choosing itself.

And as Jeeny poured them another cup of tea, the scene faded — not into silence, but into the quiet warmth of contentment, where even fleeting choices could taste like forever.