The only think I like better than talking about Food is eating.

Title: The Feast of Words

Host: The restaurant was one of those rare places where the smell of butter, garlic, and slow-cooked dreams clung to the air like an invisible orchestra. The lights were low, amber — warm enough to make every plate look like a small sunrise. Jazz whispered softly from a record player in the corner, while rain tapped the windows in a slow, familiar rhythm.

Jack sat at a corner table beneath a flickering candle, a glass of wine in his hand. His suit jacket hung over the chair beside him, and his tie was loosened — the uniform of a man both refined and restless.

Across from him, Jeeny sat with a half-eaten plate of risotto in front of her, her eyes bright with amusement. She twirled her fork idly, watching him talk the way one watches fire — half for the warmth, half for the unpredictability.

Jeeny: “John Walters once said — ‘The only thing I like better than talking about food is eating.’”

Jack: (smiling) “Ah, a man of appetite and honesty. Finally, a philosopher I can toast to.”

Host: He raised his glass slightly — the red wine catching the candlelight like a secret shared between sinners.

Jeeny: “You would love that quote. Half your philosophy comes served with garnish.”

Jack: “Of course. Philosophy without flavor is just starvation with vocabulary.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a hedonist with a thesaurus.”

Jack: “And you sound like someone who hasn’t tasted enough joy.”

Host: The waiter passed by, refilling glasses with reverence. Around them, the soft clatter of plates and laughter became the soundtrack of simple, civilized indulgence.

Jeeny: “You really think food deserves that much reverence?”

Jack: “Absolutely. Food’s the most honest form of art. You can’t fake a meal. A poem can lie, a painting can flatter, but a bad dish exposes the truth instantly.”

Jeeny: “You make dinner sound like a moral trial.”

Jack: “It is. Every bite says something about who we are — what we crave, what we deny, what we fear.”

Jeeny: “Fear?”

Jack: “Yes. We fear hunger more than death. That’s why eating feels holy — it’s communion with survival.”

Host: Jeeny paused, her fork halfway to her lips, as though his words had seasoned the air itself.

Jeeny: “You sound like a priest with a kitchen.”

Jack: “No, a philosopher with taste buds. You know, food is the only thing that unites every culture, every class. Even love divides people — food doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Except when it does. Have you ever seen a family argue over a recipe?”

Jack: (laughing) “Ah, yes — the sacred wars of spice and sauce. But even then, the conflict comes from love. People fight hardest for what feeds them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But talking about food isn’t the same as eating it.”

Jack: “True. But talking about it is foreplay.”

Host: Her eyes widened; then she laughed, the sound light and sincere. The candle between them trembled, as if even the flame blushed at his audacity.

Jeeny: “You know, John Walters was probably joking.”

Jack: “So am I. Mostly.”

Jeeny: “Mostly?”

Jack: “Because he’s right. Talking about food is like reading a map — but eating it? That’s traveling.”

Jeeny: “And you, the eternal traveler.”

Jack: “In spirit, yes. Though my passport’s stained more by coffee and wine than countries.”

Host: He reached for his plate, cut a piece of lamb, and took a slow, deliberate bite. The silence that followed was reverent, broken only by the faint hum of the jazz saxophone.

Jeeny: “You really think taste can teach you something about life?”

Jack: “Of course. Food is time made tangible. Every meal is memory, history, and geography boiled into flavor. A stew from your childhood. Bread baked with your grandmother’s hands. Even bitterness has meaning.”

Jeeny: “So what’s your favorite flavor then? Truth or nostalgia?”

Jack: “Neither. Desire.”

Jeeny: “Desire?”

Jack: “Yes. Every bite is an act of wanting — and gratitude at once. That’s what separates eating from consumption. Desire has dignity.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, but inside the restaurant it only made the light seem warmer. The diners leaned closer, as though the weather demanded intimacy.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? We treat food as pleasure, but it’s really philosophy in disguise.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every meal’s a meditation on mortality. You eat to delay death, and in the process, you taste life.”

Jeeny: “And yet, half the world eats to survive. The other half eats to feel alive.”

Jack: “Yes. And both are right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe food isn’t art — maybe it’s empathy. The one language we all understand.”

Jack: “I’ll drink to that.”

Host: He raised his glass again. The clink between them was soft but full — a sound that carried the weight of agreement disguised as ritual.

Jeeny: “You know, you could have been a chef.”

Jack: “No. Chefs are saints with knives. I’m just a sinner with opinions.”

Jeeny: “Still, you talk about food like it’s redemption.”

Jack: “It is. For a moment, food makes the world bearable. Even the loneliest man at a table becomes human again with one good meal.”

Jeeny: “And a glass of wine.”

Jack: “Especially a glass of wine.”

Host: The waiter arrived again, asking if they wanted dessert. Jeeny glanced at the menu; Jack didn’t. He already knew.

Jack: “The tiramisu.”

Jeeny: “You always order that.”

Jack: “Because it’s the perfect metaphor for life — layers of sweetness and bitterness, with just enough caffeine to keep you awake for it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And yet you always talk more than you eat.”

Jack: “Because I’m savoring it twice — once with words, once with taste.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a poet with a fork.”

Jack: “Better that than a critic with a diet.”

Host: They laughed. Around them, the other tables began to empty. The night was growing late, but the conversation — like the best meals — had no urgency to end.

Jeeny: “You know what I think John Walters meant? That talking about food isn’t just about hunger — it’s about connection. Every story, every confession, finds its way to the table.”

Jack: “Yes. We don’t eat to fill the body. We eat to fill the silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what separates us from animals.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s what makes us animals who remember.”

Host: The dessert arrived — perfect, delicate, dusted with cocoa like a painter’s last touch. Jack picked up his spoon and broke the surface, slow, deliberate, reverent.

Jack: “You see, the beauty of food is that it’s fleeting. You destroy it to experience it. Like music, or love.”

Jeeny: “And yet it stays with you.”

Jack: “In memory, in body, in story. The holy trinity of appetite.”

Jeeny: “So, in the end, you agree with Walters?”

Jack: “Of course. Talking about food is joy. Eating it is truth.”

Host: They ate in silence, letting flavor replace philosophy, letting sweetness finish the argument words couldn’t.

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The city shimmered, washed clean by indulgence and weather. Inside, the plates were empty, but the warmth lingered — on the table, in their faces, in the faint glow of the fading candle.

And as the music played its last slow note, John Walters’ words hung over the moment like laughter after dessert:

That food, like life, is better experienced than analyzed.
That talking about pleasure is art —
but living it is grace.

The candle flickered once, then steadied.
The city exhaled.

And in that gentle silence,
Jack raised his glass once more,
to the holy union of words and flavor,
and the divine, human hunger
that makes both worth living for.