The simple reason buffets light up a room is this: you are

Host: The restaurant was closed for the night, but the lights still glowed — soft, golden, like the lingering warmth of a memory that refused to fade. Plates and glasses were stacked, the floor shone faintly under the half-lit ceiling, and in the middle of the room, a long buffet table still stood, half cleared, half forgotten — as if it, too, wanted to hold on to the joy of the evening a little longer.

Outside, the rain had begun — not heavy, but steady — whispering against the windows, turning the city’s lights into streaks of trembling color.

Jack and Jeeny sat at the end of the table, coffee cups steaming between them, the faint echoes of laughter still hovering in the air. They had just hosted a community dinner — neighbors, families, strangers — the kind of gathering that felt old-fashioned, almost out of place in a world that rarely paused long enough to share a meal.

Jeeny: “You know, Grace Dent once said something lovely: ‘The simple reason buffets light up a room is this: you are providing guests with a tiny dopamine shot from a point in life they were happiest.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “A dopamine shot? You make it sound like comfort food is a chemical experiment.”

Jeeny: “In a way, it is. But it’s more than that. It’s about memory, connection. Buffets aren’t just about choice — they’re about nostalgia. They remind people of when life felt… full. Uncomplicated.”

Jack: “Or maybe they remind people how greedy we are. You put a hundred dishes in front of humans, and they’ll take a bit of everything — not because they need it, but because they can.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s cynical, even for you.”

Jack: “It’s honest. Buffets are a mirror. They show you human nature — impulsive, restless, never satisfied.”

Jeeny: “Or they show you something beautiful — that small spark of childhood joy that still exists in adults. You see that woman earlier? The one who squealed when she found the mango pudding? She wasn’t greedy. She was remembering her mother’s kitchen, her grandmother’s laughter, some lost summer afternoon.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice carried a kind of gentle fire — quiet but certain. The rain tapped harder now, like a soft applause from the night. Jack tilted his head, his eyes reflecting the buffet lights, torn between amusement and consideration.

Jack: “So, food equals happiness, huh? Just throw in some fried chicken and nostalgia, and everyone’s cured of their existential dread.”

Jeeny: “Don’t mock it, Jack. You saw those faces tonight. People who barely talk to their neighbors sat laughing together. Food isn’t the cure for loneliness, but it’s a bridge across it.”

Jack: “I’ll give you that. People are easier when their mouths are full.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “You make it sound like compassion’s a side effect of digestion.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. You ever notice how world peace always starts with a dinner invitation?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Dent was saying — buffets light up a room because they awaken something primal. Not hunger — belonging. It’s a kind of shared humanity you can actually taste.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands around the warm cup, the steam drifting into the dim light. His expression softened — the edges of his skepticism slowly melting.

Jack: “You’re talking about nostalgia as medicine. But nostalgia’s dangerous too. It makes people believe the past was better than it was. A buffet of memories — all sweet, none of the bitterness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it healing. We get to select what to remember, just like we select what to eat. We build our own comfort plate.”

Jack: “So we lie to ourselves with flavor.”

Jeeny: “No, we forgive ourselves with it.”

Host: The lights from the ceiling flickered, dimmed slightly. Outside, the rain became a silver curtain, blurring the world beyond the glass. Inside, time slowed. Jack watched Jeeny’s hands, small and still stained with turmeric and spice, and something in his chest stirred — the memory of his mother’s hands, stirring stew, humming softly over the stove.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mom used to do these big Sunday dinners. Relatives everywhere, noise, smells… She’d let me taste things before they were ready. It felt like… magic. I haven’t felt that in years.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You felt it tonight. I saw it in your eyes when the kids ran around the table.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Yeah. Maybe for a second. The smell of roasted garlic, the noise… it hit me.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Dent meant. Buffets — real ones, not the corporate kind — are memory rituals. They remind us who we were before we got too busy being who we are.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice dropped to a whisper, like she was afraid of waking the ghosts that had gathered quietly around their conversation. The room felt suddenly sacred — a chapel of plates, flavors, and lost time.

Jack: “You think food can really bring back happiness?”

Jeeny: “Not happiness — but the possibility of it. The way a certain spice can pull a whole decade out of your heart. It’s not the food itself, Jack. It’s the emotion coded inside it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying dopamine isn’t just chemistry — it’s memory.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The mind doesn’t know the difference between tasting something and remembering tasting it. That’s why a buffet feels like a reunion — not with people, but with the pieces of ourselves we left behind.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s life. Every bite is a time machine.”

Host: The rain outside softened into a quiet drizzle. Somewhere in the distance, a neon sign blinked, and the reflection rippled across the window like a heartbeat. Jack stood, walked to the buffet table, and lifted the lid off a remaining dish — the scent of curry and coriander rose, filling the air with something almost holy.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I opened this place, I thought food was about business — inventory, taste, profit margins. But tonight… it felt like a language I’d forgotten how to speak.”

Jeeny: “Then speak it again. Feed people until they remember what warmth tastes like.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Only about food.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, marking the slow return of silence. Jeeny stood, helped clear a few plates, and together they moved through the quiet space, two figures gathering the last remnants of joy from the night.

Jack: “You ever notice how people never say grace at buffets? Maybe it’s because the food itself is the prayer.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The prayer, the offering, and the answer — all at once.”

Host: The lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the soft glow of the street outside. Jack and Jeeny stood by the door, coats on, the aroma of food still clinging to the air — a final reminder of the feast they’d created.

Jack: “You were right, Jeeny. Buffets really do light up a room.”

Jeeny: “Because they light up the people in it.”

Host: As they stepped out into the rain, the world felt warmer than before — the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from heat, but from the quiet miracle of shared memory. The puddles reflected the city lights like plates of color, scattered offerings of joy.

And as they walked, side by side, laughter still echoing faintly behind them, the night seemed to whisper Grace Dent’s truth once more — that happiness, like a buffet, isn’t about what’s on the table.

It’s about the moment when you taste something, and remember — for just a heartbeat — who you once were, and who you still are.