We're all so busy we don't make time to enjoy our lives, good

Host: The restaurant was almost empty — a quiet hum of soft jazz, the faint clinking of cutlery, and the low murmur of conversations that felt more like memories than words. Outside, the city glowed beneath a velvet rain, each droplet catching the streetlight and turning into a fleeting jewel before disappearing into the pavement.

Inside, Jack sat alone at a small corner table, the remains of a meal untouched — a glass of red wine, a cooling steak, a notebook filled with lists and unfinished thoughts. Across from him, the seat was empty until Jeeny arrived — late, as usual, but smiling, as if she were the warmth missing from the room.

She hung her coat, shook the rain from her hair, and took her seat with that effortless grace that made even silence feel conversational.

Host: The light fell golden across the table, reflecting softly in the wine. Between them hung that tender space where friendship becomes confession.

Jeeny: picking up the menu but not reading it “John Torode once said, ‘We’re all so busy we don’t make time to enjoy our lives, good company, and good food.’”
She glanced up at him. “I think that’s the truest thing anyone’s ever said about people like you.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “People like me?”

Jeeny: “The ones who eat standing up. Who drink coffee like it’s survival fuel. Who check their emails between bites.”

Jack: “That’s called multitasking.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s called missing your life in real time.”

Host: He gave a quiet, low laugh — the kind that sounded more like exhale than amusement. The waiter passed by, the smell of freshly baked bread following him like a ghost.

Jack: “You sound like one of those mindfulness podcasts. ‘Be present. Breathe. Chew your food.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just reminding you that life isn’t a to-do list.”

Jack: “Tell that to deadlines. Or rent. Or the thousand other things waiting for me tomorrow.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “And when you finally finish them all — then what? What’s left?”

Jack: pausing “Peace. Maybe.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Regret.”

Host: The rain pressed lightly against the window, a faint rhythm that made the city sound like a lullaby. The waiter brought fresh plates — roasted duck for her, steak reheated for him. Steam curled from the dishes, perfuming the air with warmth and spice.

Jeeny picked up her fork, but instead of eating, she watched him.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how you never actually taste what you eat?”

Jack: “Of course I do.” He cut a piece absently. “It tastes fine.”

Jeeny: “That’s not tasting. That’s inventory. Food isn’t fuel — it’s language. It’s art. It’s the closest we come to loving something without needing words.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but people have things to do.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie, Jack. You’re so busy making a living that you’ve forgotten to make a life.”

Host: Her words hit the air like soft rain — quiet but impossible to ignore. Jack’s fork hovered mid-air, his eyes distant, his jaw tight. He looked at the meal as though seeing it for the first time.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, Sunday dinners were sacred. My father would roast something — didn’t matter what — and we’d sit for hours. He’d talk about nothing and everything. I used to think it was a waste of time.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’d give anything for one more of those hours.”

Jeeny: “Then stop chasing the hours you’ve lost and start protecting the ones you still have.”

Host: The restaurant grew quieter, the night deepening outside, the rain slowing to a drizzle. A couple laughed softly at the bar; the chef’s knife clattered faintly in the kitchen.

Jack: pouring more wine “So what’s your secret, Jeeny? You make it sound easy. Just slow down and happiness appears?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not easy. It’s deliberate. You have to fight for it. You have to choose to turn your phone face-down, to linger over a meal, to listen to someone breathe between their words. That’s the rebellion now — slowing down.”

Jack: “Slowing down as rebellion. You should trademark that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I will. Right after dessert.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You’re serious?”

Jeeny: “Deadly. We’re ordering dessert. And we’re staying until the candles burn out.”

Host: She flagged down the waiter, her voice warm, her eyes certain. Soon, plates arrived — a simple crumble, rich with cinnamon and heat, melting vanilla ice cream spilling slowly across it.

Jack took a bite — tentative, skeptical — and then stilled.

Jeeny: “See? You stopped thinking for five seconds.”

Jack: quietly “I remember this taste.”

Jeeny: “What does it remind you of?”

Jack: “Of when things were slower. Of home.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Food’s memory you can chew.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, catching the glass and silverware, turning the room into a constellation of warm golds. Jack leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders dissolving.

Jack: “You’re right, you know. I keep saying I’ll live when things calm down. But things never do.”

Jeeny: “Because life doesn’t wait for calm. It happens in the middle of the noise.”

Jack: “And all this time, I thought being busy meant being alive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It just means being absent in motion.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The street outside gleamed like black glass, reflecting the warm interior lights of the restaurant. Time — that relentless current — seemed, for once, to have slowed.

Jeeny looked at him, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Torode’s quote?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about food. It’s about presence. Food just happens to be the most delicious excuse for it.”

Jack: “Presence,” he repeated quietly. “That’s what I’ve been missing.”

Jeeny: “Then stop missing it. You’re here. Right now.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “I am.”

Host: For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just sat there — two people, one table, one slow heartbeat in a world addicted to speed.

The plates were nearly empty. The candles burned low. Outside, the city kept rushing, but inside, time itself had chosen to dine with them.

And as Jack finally looked up, meeting Jeeny’s steady, unhurried gaze, he felt something he hadn’t in years — not success, not productivity, but simple, unadorned peace.

Host: Because in that small, golden hour, amid good company and good food, they remembered the truth John Torode had tasted long before them:
that life isn’t found in the rush between moments —
but in the ones we finally stop long enough to savor.