Thursday nights had their own rhythm: a movie at the cinema, then the rib joint.
Same table every time, same jokes every time.
No need to change anything: that was the formula.
But that evening we’d seen Jurassic Park.
And even though we were used to dissecting any movie with the swagger of amateur critics, this time we were all a bit… overwhelmed.
Hit hard.
Even the ones who’d never admit it.
We sat at our usual table.
There were four of us:
– Luke, who already knew everything about everything, including what he didn’t know.
– Martha, who could find scientific errors in a BBC documentary.
– Nick, who ate like he was preparing for an imminent extinction event.
– And then me, with geology in my bones and that childlike enthusiasm I never entirely outgrew.
Staring at the menu, Nick dropped one of his epic lines:
“Guys… I don’t see any recombinant DNA on the menu! AHAHAH!”
He laughed, we didn’t. Classic.
The ribs arrived in twelve and a half minutes: an unofficial record, but unanimously acknowledged.
For a few seconds no one spoke.
Then Luke scoffed:
“Anyway… amber that transparent doesn’t exist. Pure sci-fi.”
Martha tossed a fry at him:
“Can I enjoy my moment of wonder? Thanks.”
I was smiling, thinking how that movie managed to blend science, fantasy, and fear in a way very few do.
The sound of footsteps, the ground trembling, that automatic awe of seeing something huge, absurd, impossible—yet somehow believable.
And the young paleontologist growing inside me couldn’t resist:
“Guys, did you notice? It’s called Jurassic Park… and almost none of the dinosaurs in the movie are from the Jurassic.”
They looked at me like I’d just spoiled The Sixth Sense.
Martha sighed:
“So what should it have been called… Cretaceous Park?”
I was about to reply:
“Well, technically the Mesozoic is an era…”
And that’s when it happened.
From the table behind us, a man in his fifties — short beard, thin glasses, light shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a well-worn baseball cap — turned slightly toward us.
The kind of person who looks more like he walked off a film set than into a pub.
He wasn’t intrusive.
He just seemed like someone who can’t resist when he hears a detail explained poorly.
In a calm voice, he said:
“‘Jurassic’ isn’t wrong… it’s a convenient label.
Sometimes we simplify the world to make it tellable.”
The four of us turned at the same time.
He gave us a small smile and added:
“In the end… we tell stories because it’s our way of daydreaming with our eyes open.”
Then he went back to sipping his beer, as if he hadn’t just directed the best scene of the evening.
We stayed silent for at least fifteen seconds.
Nick even stopped chewing.
Then I whispered:
“…Guys… was that the director…?”
No one finished the thought.
We didn’t need to.
It was better that way: letting the doubt sit there, breathing with us.
And today, whenever I wear my The Mesozoic Pub & Grill T-shirt, the movie, the pub, and that suspended line spoken by a stranger — who could’ve been anyone… or maybe someone — all come back to me.