The food in such places is so tasteless because the members

Host: The restaurant was all white linen and chandeliers, the kind of place where even the silence cost money. Waiters moved like ghosts between the tables, balancing plates too delicate to satisfy hunger. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the windows fogged, a soft veil between the world of the elite and the street beyond.

At a corner table, Jack sat in a grey suit, his tie loosened, his eyes scanning the menu with visible disdain. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her soup, its color pale, its smell faint, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and pity.

A pianist played in the background — the kind of melody that sounded beautiful until you realized it was designed not to be noticed.

Jeeny: “Calvin Trillin once said, ‘The food in such places is so tasteless because the members associate spices and garlic with just the sort of people they’re trying to keep out.’” (She smiles faintly, setting her spoon down.) “Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

Jack: (leans back, smirking slightly) “Oh, it’s perfect. Tasteless food for tasteless people. But you’re missing the brilliance of it — the blandness isn’t a flaw, it’s a signal. It says, we’re refined enough to not need flavor.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Refined? Or terrified? Because to me, it sounds like a quiet kind of prejudice served on fine china.”

Host: The waiter approached with a smile polished by years of service, placing down their entrees — veal medallions, microgreens, a drizzle of something pretending to be a sauce. Jack nodded, dismissing him without a word. The aroma was almost nonexistent.

Jack: “Prejudice or preference, Jeeny? These people pay for separation — from noise, from spice, from sweat. Blandness is safety. It’s order. Garlic is rebellion. And you can’t have rebellion in a ten-thousand-dollar-a-year dining club.”

Jeeny: (*leans forward, her voice sharp, eyes bright) “So you think the absence of flavor is sophistication?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s branding. It tells everyone who belongs and who doesn’t. The real product here isn’t food — it’s the feeling of being above the world that actually tastes.”

Jeeny: (quietly, stirring her soup again) “But isn’t that tragic? That comfort requires sterilizing life? I grew up with food that burned your tongue — garlic, chilies, pepper. My mother said spice was how you remembered you were alive.”

Jack: “And she was right. But not everyone wants to remember. Some people just want to exist quietly in their illusion — where nothing surprises them, nothing offends them, nothing tastes like the real world.”

Host: The clinking of forks and whispered laughter filled the space. The air-conditioning hummed — precise, controlled, stripping even the scent of food from the air. Outside, a street vendor’s cart passed, the faint smell of roasted corn seeping in when the door opened for a moment. Jeeny’s eyes followed the smell, and something in her expression softened.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? Out there, a man cooks on a sidewalk — no linen, no chandeliers — and yet, people line up for his corn. It’s not perfect. It’s real. It’s messy, loud, human. And here, in this temple of refinement, we pay to forget that.”

Jack: (chuckles, picking at his food) “That’s capitalism, Jeeny. It sells you emptiness in a box labeled purity. You think these people come here for nourishment? No. They come for the illusion of superiority — to eat absence and call it virtue.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not capitalism, Jack. It’s fear. The fear of being touched by the world. The fear of garlic, of sweat, of stories that don’t fit the menu.”

Jack: (*tilts his head, smiling faintly) “You make it sound poetic. But fear works. It always has. Entire empires were built on the desire to separate the refined from the raw.”

Jeeny: “And every empire that forgot the raw fell apart.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like the smell of rain before a storm. Jack’s smile faded slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He lifted his fork, took a bite, and grimaced. The food was beautiful to look at, but tasted like air.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father used to say flavor was for the poor. We lived in a neighborhood where people boiled everything — even meat — because we couldn’t afford spices. When he finally got money, the first thing he did was start eating here. Said it tasted like success.”

Jeeny: (softly) “No, Jack. It tasted like forgetting.”

Host: The light above their table flickered slightly, catching the gold edges of their glasses. Jack looked down, hands still, the sound of the piano shifting to a slower, sadder tone. Jeeny’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “You can build walls with food just as easily as with bricks. You can make a plate a weapon, if you decide certain flavors don’t belong.”

Jack: “You think garlic’s political?”

Jeeny: “Everything that divides people is political.”

Host: The room’s atmosphere shifted — laughter in the background faded, leaving only the faint clinking of cutlery. Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes softer now, no longer cold.

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do, Jeeny? March into their kitchens and demand paprika and cumin?”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “No. Just eat with the people they’re trying to forget. Sit at a table that smells like stories. Remember that flavor is humanity. It’s culture. It’s defiance. Every spice tells someone’s survival.”

Host: The door opened again. A gust of city air entered — filled with the scent of food trucks, fried onions, grilled bread, spices dancing on the wind. For a second, the elegant diners wrinkled their noses, disturbed. Jeeny inhaled, closing her eyes.

Jack watched her, then slowly set his fork down.

Jack: “You’re right. This place doesn’t feed anyone. It just maintains the illusion of taste — without tasting life.”

Jeeny: (nods) “Because real taste comes from struggle. From joy. From pain. And you can’t distill that into fine dining without killing it.”

Jack: “So, in a way, this isn’t a restaurant — it’s a museum of appetite.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Exactly. And every plate is an exhibit of fear.”

Host: A pause. The piano fell silent. Jack pushed back his chair, stood, and extended a hand toward her.

Jack: “Come on. Let’s find something that tastes like living.”

Jeeny: (takes his hand, smiling) “Street food?”

Jack: “Garlic and all.”

Host: They walked out, leaving their half-eaten plates behind — still beautiful, still untouched by flavor. The waiter glanced at the table, confused, then quietly replaced the linen as if erasing a secret.

Outside, the night air hit them — warm, thick, and rich with the smell of the city: roasted corn, sizzling meat, sugar melting on a cart. Jack loosened his tie, Jeeny laughed, and the street vendor smiled, holding out two paper plates dripping with spice.

Jack took a bite — his eyes widened, his lips burning, but a smile broke through.

Jack: “God. It’s alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s what flavor is — life refusing to be polite.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the restaurant’s white glow shrinking behind them, until all that remained was the color and heat of the street — people laughing, eating, talking, living.

Because in the end, Trillin was right —
The fear of spice is the fear of life itself.
And those who hide from flavor end up tasting nothing at all.