The murals in restaurants are on par with the food in museums.

Host: The restaurant was one of those places that tried too hard — gold leaf on the menus, faux-marble on the walls, murals of Renaissance angels painted above velvet booths. The air smelled faintly of truffle oil and money, the kind that whispers rather than shouts. Somewhere, a string quartet played softly through the speakers, their melody fighting to sound sincere above the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of polite conversation.

Host: Jack sat at a table near the back, his fork spinning idly in a half-eaten plate of risotto. His tie was loose, his eyes distant — the look of a man unimpressed by both the meal and the performance surrounding it. Across from him, Jeeny sipped from a glass of water, her expression calm but amused.

Host: Between them sat a half-empty bottle of wine and an untouched dessert — a deconstructed tiramisu that looked more like modern art than food.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Peter De Vries once said, ‘The murals in restaurants are on par with the food in museums.’”

Jack: (snorts softly) “So... all show, no soul.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He was poking fun at both sides — the pretentiousness of art and the emptiness of luxury.”

Jack: “Yeah. Art without hunger and food without love. You ever notice how both are the same disease?”

Jeeny: “What disease?”

Jack: “Pretension. The kind that mistakes polish for passion.”

Host: A waiter passed, placing another glittering plate at the next table — something drizzled, stacked, and microscopic. A couple in designer clothes murmured their approval.

Jeeny: “People pay for illusion, Jack. The idea of sophistication. It’s not really about taste — it’s about belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every overpriced meal, every abstract painting bought at auction — it’s a passport. Proof that you’re cultured enough to understand the nonsense.”

Jack: (chuckling) “You sound like someone who’s seen through the curtain.”

Jeeny: “I just think there’s something tragic about people pretending to feel moved by things that never touched them.”

Host: The light above flickered briefly, catching the gold trim of the mural — angels offering grapes to gods who never ate. Jack stared up at it, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s the point? That we all fake refinement because it’s better than admitting how simple we really are?”

Jeeny: “There’s nothing wrong with simplicity.”

Jack: “Try saying that in a room like this.”

Jeeny: (glancing around) “I am saying it.”

Jack: (grins) “Brave.”

Host: The waiter returned to pour more wine, and the red liquid caught the candlelight like a slow-moving flame. For a moment, everything looked perfect — elegant, composed, hollow.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny about that quote? It sounds like a joke, but it’s really a critique. Food and art both started as acts of survival. But the more civilized we became, the more we tried to hide the hunger behind them.”

Jack: “We turned instinct into entertainment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People used to paint to tell stories, cook to stay alive. Now we paint for galleries and cook for Instagram.”

Jack: “The irony is, both are supposed to be about connection — about humanity.”

Jeeny: “And we’ve traded that for aesthetics.”

Host: A faint laughter rippled from the next table — brittle, careful, the kind that sounds rehearsed. Jack and Jeeny exchanged a look — the kind that didn’t need words.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to make stew on Sundays. Big pot, simple stuff — onions, potatoes, whatever meat she could afford. It wasn’t pretty. But the smell filled the whole house.”

Jeeny: “That’s real art.”

Jack: “She’d laugh to see this place. She used to say, ‘If a meal looks too good to eat, it probably isn’t worth eating.’”

Jeeny: “She sounds wise.”

Jack: “She was hungry. That’s better than wise.”

Host: A slow silence settled between them, gentle but charged. The string music shifted to something slower, sadder — as if the restaurant itself was growing tired of pretending.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The more we have, the less we seem to taste.”

Jack: “Because we’ve stopped tasting with our hearts.”

Jeeny: “And started dining with our egos.”

Jack: “That should be their slogan here.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly — a sound of genuine warmth cutting through the glass-and-gold perfection of the room. The nearby diners glanced briefly, then looked away — as though real laughter were indecent.

Jack: “You ever been to a museum and seen people stare at a painting they don’t understand?”

Jeeny: “All the time.”

Jack: “That’s this.” (gestures to the room) “Everyone pretending to savor what they can’t even feel.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what De Vries meant — that both art and dining have become about performance. Everyone’s too busy proving they have taste to actually enjoy anything.”

Jack: “Yeah. And the tragedy is, the real beauty’s not in the perfect bite or the perfect brushstroke — it’s in the imperfection. The crack in the voice, the burnt edge of bread.”

Jeeny: “The parts that remind you a human made it.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, streaking the window in crooked silver lines. The candles flickered under the draft. For a moment, the restaurant seemed fragile — the illusion cracking, the pretense faltering.

Jeeny: “You know, I think De Vries was laughing when he said it. But he was also mourning something — the loss of sincerity.”

Jack: “Yeah. The world doesn’t want real anymore. It wants curated.”

Jeeny: “But real still finds a way to break through. A song, a smell, a shared silence — things that can’t be bought.”

Jack: “And can’t be faked.”

Host: The waiter came by, clearing their plates with careful hands. Jack stopped him.

Jack: “You know what? Can I get something off-menu?”

Waiter: (surprised) “Off-menu, sir?”

Jack: “Yeah. Something real. Something your grandmother would make.”

Host: The waiter blinked, then smiled — not the trained smile of service, but the real kind, the kind that reaches the eyes.

Waiter: “I think I can do that.”

Host: When he left, Jeeny looked at Jack with that mix of humor and admiration she reserved for moments like this.

Jeeny: “You just broke the fourth wall of dining.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, maybe it needed breaking.”

Host: The room softened around them. The noise faded. The mural above — once pompous and decorative — now just looked sad and distant, a painting with nothing left to say.

Jeeny: “You know what, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The food in museums might be fake, but the hunger that makes people stare at it — that’s real.”

Jack: “And the murals in restaurants might be empty, but maybe they’re just mirrors — showing us how hungry we’ve become for meaning.”

Host: The waiter returned a few minutes later, carrying two simple bowls. Steam rose from them — warm, fragrant, honest. A stew. Nothing fancy, just human.

Host: Jack took a bite, closed his eyes, and smiled.

Jack: “Now this tastes like art.”

Jeeny: “No,” (smiling) “this tastes like truth.”

Host: The camera pulled back — two figures framed by the glow of candlelight, steam rising between them, laughter soft and genuine. Outside, the rain eased into a hush, and the night exhaled its pretense.

Host: And as the scene faded, Peter De Vries’s wit echoed quietly in the air — not as cynicism, but as prophecy:

Host: “The murals in restaurants are on par with the food in museums.”

Host: A reminder that the world may paint its illusions gold —
but the soul still craves something real to taste.