So much of today's food is based on the exploitation of animals

Host: The evening sun hung low over the city, bleeding its last light through the smudged windows of a small farm-to-table café tucked in the corner of a cobblestone street. The air inside was alive with quiet — the clinking of forks, the murmur of conversation, the earthy perfume of roasted vegetables and herbs. A chalkboard menu read in looping script: Local. Ethical. Honest.

At a corner table, Jack sat with a glass of red wine, his jacket draped carelessly over the chair. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her gaze fixed not on her cup but on the plate between them — a simple dish of grilled vegetables, olive oil gleaming like liquid amber beneath the dim light.

For a long while, they said nothing. The silence felt intentional — as though both were waiting for the other to break the spell.

Then, finally, Jeeny spoke.

Jeeny: “Steve Ells said, ‘So much of today’s food is based on the exploitation of animals and the environment. Yes, it’s cheap, but at what cost?’”

Jack: (Leaning back, a faint smirk.) “At the cost of taste, maybe. Ethical food always sounds better than it eats.”

Host: The light from the window traced the edge of his jaw, cold and sharp. Jeeny smiled — that calm, knowing smile of someone ready to argue not for victory, but for truth.

Jeeny: “That’s not what he meant, Jack. He was talking about the unseen costs — the kind you can’t taste. The cost of suffering. Of damage. Of forgetting where your meal comes from.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, I’m not sure guilt makes a great seasoning either. You can’t save the planet with salad.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can stop pretending that indulgence is innocent.”

Host: Her words were soft, but they carried weight — the kind that lands quietly and stays. Outside, the streetlight flickered to life, its glow catching in the rain-slick pavement like the shimmer of conscience itself.

Jack: “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “No. Just a woman tired of eating in denial.”

Jack: (Pouring more wine.) “You make it sound moral. But it’s economics. Cheap food feeds people. The world can’t afford ethics when it’s starving.”

Jeeny: “The world’s not starving, Jack. It’s hoarding. The problem isn’t scarcity — it’s greed. We’ve built an empire of appetite and called it progress.”

Host: The waiter passed their table, setting down a basket of bread still warm from the oven. The scent filled the air — simple, ancient, perfect. Jeeny tore a piece and set it down untouched. Jack watched her, his cynicism tempered by curiosity.

Jack: “You think eating consciously can fix all that?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s where awareness starts. Food is the one moral decision we make three times a day — and we treat it like convenience.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “You’re assuming people have the luxury of choice.”

Jeeny: “I’m assuming people have the duty to think. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, light at first — the kind that makes sound only when it finds glass. Inside, the café grew warmer, the conversations quieter, as if the whole room was leaning in to listen.

Jack: “So what? You want to go back to growing tomatoes in the yard? Pretend we can unwind an entire global system with farmers’ markets and fair trade stickers?”

Jeeny: “No. I want us to eat like we remember the earth is finite. Like we understand that every cheap meal has a hidden price tag written in soil, water, and blood.”

Jack: “You’re making food sound like philosophy.”

Jeeny: “It always has been. Every culture that’s lasted has had rituals around food — gratitude, restraint, reverence. We turned it into entertainment and lost the meaning.”

Jack: “Reverence doesn’t fill stomachs.”

Jeeny: “Neither does ignorance.”

Host: Jack’s fingers traced the rim of his glass. He looked down at the wine — red as conscience, still as regret.

Jack: “You ever think maybe humanity just isn’t built for guilt? We’re too hungry to care.”

Jeeny: “Maybe hunger’s the wrong word. We’re not starving for food — we’re starving for connection. And the way we eat shows it. We consume everything — animals, land, even each other — without remembering that every bite is a relationship.”

Jack: “A relationship? With what — a chicken?”

Jeeny: (Smiling sadly.) “With the chain of life itself. We’ve broken it so badly we don’t even taste the violence anymore.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming against the glass, washing the reflections of streetlights into streaks of gold and shadow. A couple near the window laughed quietly; their plates gleamed with meat and wine.

Jeeny watched them, her voice almost a whisper now.

Jeeny: “You know, the first time I visited a slaughterhouse, I couldn’t eat for a week. Not because of pity — but because I realized I’d been participating in something I’d never even looked at. That’s the real cost, Jack. Not just what we do — but what we refuse to see.”

Jack: (Softly.) “And you think awareness changes that?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to change everyone. Just the ones who are listening. Every movement begins with someone who can’t forget what they’ve seen.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long time, the tension in his posture melting into contemplation. Outside, the storm quieted — the kind of hush that follows reckoning.

Jack: “You know, you talk like Ells — like food isn’t just nourishment, it’s a mirror.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every civilization can be judged by how it eats.”

Jack: “And what do you see when you look at ours?”

Jeeny: (Pausing.) “A species that’s traded grace for convenience.”

Host: The waiter returned, offering dessert. They declined. The plates before them sat mostly untouched — not out of waste, but of awareness.

Jack: “You know, I never used to think about it. Where food came from, what it cost to make. I just ate. Maybe that’s the problem. We don’t eat anymore — we consume.”

Jeeny: “Then stop consuming. Start honoring.”

Jack: “That’s a tall order.”

Jeeny: “So is conscience.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streetlights shimmered on the wet cobblestones like the veins of the earth itself — fragile, interconnected, alive. Jack looked down at the untouched bread and finally tore a piece, slowly, reverently, as though it were something sacred.

Jeeny smiled.

Jack: “You know… maybe Ells was right. Food used to bring people together. Now it divides them — by privilege, by blindness. Maybe the only way back is to make every meal a small act of awareness.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it’s ever been — a daily prayer disguised as habit.”

Host: Their glasses met softly — not a toast, but a quiet truce.

Outside, the night exhaled, and the café lights glowed warm against the world’s cold appetite.

And as the camera drifted away, through the window into the rain-drenched street, their conversation became an echo —

that food is not just consumption,
but communion;
that every bite writes an ethical sentence;
and that the question Ells asked — “At what cost?” —
isn’t rhetorical at all,
but the one we must learn to answer,
three times a day,
with the heart.