Stop being a vegan and start enjoying what you eat.

Host: The evening sun spilled over the harbor, turning the sea into a rippling sheet of molten gold. The faint scent of grilled food drifted from a nearby street market — garlic, olive oil, charcoal, and the deep, earthy smoke of roasted vegetables. Somewhere, a guitar played a slow, drifting tune that belonged more to memory than melody.

Jack leaned against a wooden railing, a small paper box of food in his hand — something simple, something that steamed softly in the cool air. Jeeny sat beside him, barefoot, her sandals abandoned at her side, her eyes reflecting the sunset.

Jeeny: “Jamie Oliver once said, ‘Stop being a vegan and start enjoying what you eat.’ What do you think he meant?”

Jack: “He meant what every chef who’s tired of food politics means — stop turning meals into manifestos.”

Host: He spoke without looking at her, his grey eyes lost in the shifting light on the water, the way the waves seemed to eat the day one shimmer at a time.

Jeeny: “That sounds cynical.”

Jack: “It’s not cynicism. It’s fatigue. Everyone’s at war over what’s on the plate. Meat, no meat. Gluten, no gluten. Organic, local, imported, blessed by the moon. Food used to be about taste. Now it’s about identity.”

Jeeny: “Identity is part of taste. What we eat says who we are, or at least who we want to be.”

Jack: “Yeah, but it’s turned into a religion. You can’t even order lunch without someone judging your soul. ‘Oh, you still eat dairy?’ ‘Oh, you still have empathy?’ It’s exhausting.”

Host: A seagull glided low over the water, its wings brushing the light. Jeeny took a slow bite of her roasted vegetables, the steam curling past her face.

Jeeny: “Maybe Oliver wasn’t mocking veganism — maybe he was reminding people that food isn’t supposed to be a punishment. Even being vegan should be about joy, not deprivation.”

Jack: “Joy’s a luxury now. Everything’s moralized. You can’t enjoy a burger without thinking about carbon footprints, or a salad without wondering if the farmworkers were paid fairly. Guilt is the new seasoning.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. Awareness isn’t guilt. It’s compassion.”

Jack: “It’s self-flagellation. Half the people preaching compassion online are sipping almond milk while California dries up. The other half are gnawing on lab-grown steak and calling it redemption. It’s all hypocrisy wrapped in good intentions.”

Host: The sky darkened slightly, the sun dipping lower. The market lights began to flicker on, casting a warm glow that danced across their faces.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it better to at least try? To care? Even if it’s imperfect?”

Jack: “Sure. But you know what caring turned into? Control. People forgot how to taste. How to just let food be pleasure. Even guiltless pleasure feels suspicious now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because pleasure without consciousness can become cruelty.”

Jack: “And consciousness without pleasure becomes ideology.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the sound of laughter and the faint crackle of a food stand’s grill. Somewhere, someone was sprinkling salt over meat — the hiss and sizzle of it cutting through their silence.

Jeeny: “You sound like you miss something.”

Jack: “I miss simplicity. The kind of meal that doesn’t need hashtags. My grandmother used to cook with whatever was on hand — potatoes, onions, a bit of butter. It wasn’t about health or politics; it was about enoughness. That’s gone now. Everything’s either indulgence or abstinence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both are extremes. Maybe what Oliver meant was — stop performing your diet. Just eat with gratitude.”

Jack: “Gratitude. There’s a word nobody digests anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe start there. You can’t really enjoy anything if you’re busy proving something.”

Host: The light softened. Jeeny leaned back, resting her head against the railing, her hair catching the last slant of sun. Her voice lowered, almost reflective.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s funny? The people who talk most about food — the activists, the chefs, the influencers — they’re often the farthest from hunger. Real hunger doesn’t care if the meal is vegan or not. It just wants to be fed.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s the irony. We’ve turned choice into morality. But for most of the world, food isn’t a moral decision — it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the message — stop moralizing food, and start honoring it. Taste it. Feel grateful. Laugh again while you eat. Like when we were kids.”

Jack: “You mean when cereal was pure sugar and we didn’t care?”

Jeeny: “Yes. When joy didn’t have a label.”

Host: Jack chuckled softly, his voice breaking the rhythm of the waves. He took a bite from his box — roasted chicken, maybe, or something else that once came with guilt.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. I can taste more when I stop thinking about it.”

Jeeny: “Because you’ve stopped turning it into a philosophy.”

Jack: “Maybe philosophy’s just what we create when we can’t admit we’re afraid to enjoy things.”

Jeeny: “Afraid?”

Jack: “Yeah. Afraid of indulgence, of being judged, of being human. We’ve convinced ourselves that enjoying something means betraying something.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t joy the most human thing of all?”

Jack: “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Host: A long pause. The sea shimmered in the deepening blue, waves whispering like ancient advice. The air filled with a mix of spices, smoke, and quiet understanding.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Oliver was saying something simple — that food should bring us back to ourselves. The act of eating is the act of remembering that we belong to the earth, not to labels.”

Jack: “And that the best meals are still shared, not posted.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The mouth is meant to taste, not perform.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the sound blending into the evening hum — the clink of dishes, the buzz of voices, the sigh of the tide.

Jack: “You think we could still eat like that again — freely?”

Jeeny: “Only if we start forgiving ourselves first.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For being human enough to enjoy something without making it pure.”

Host: The camera panned wide — the harbor, the lights, the faint gleam of the moon on the water. The food was almost gone now, but the warmth between them lingered, like the echo of a meal that nourished more than the body.

Jeeny smiled, looking out over the waves.

Jeeny: “Maybe the real revolution isn’t what we eat — it’s how we taste.”

Jack: “And maybe the real sin isn’t meat or sugar. It’s forgetting how to be grateful.”

Host: The sky darkened into a soft indigo. The wind carried laughter and the smell of fire. Two figures remained by the railing, neither hungry, nor full — simply alive.

Somewhere in the distance, a grill flared, the flames rising for a moment — like a brief, holy joy — and then settling again into quiet warmth.

The scene faded as their voices softened into the night, a reminder that maybe the truest form of nourishment is still — and always will be — enjoyment.