I’ve cooked under considerable pressure before, and I’ve cooked for big parties, but I’ve never felt to such pressure as I did cooking for Jane. It was her last meal, after all.
For some, last meals are morbidly fascinating, from the Last Supper to a death row repast. Jesus had bread and wine. Princess Diana had a mushroom and asparagus omelet, dover sole, vegetable tempura, and a glass of bubbly. Domestic terrorist Timothy McVeigh ate two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Serial killer John Wayne Gacy scarfed down a bucket of KFC, a dozen fried shrimp, a pound of strawberries, and a side of fries. President George W. Bush almost choked to death on a pretzel.
Then there is the hypothetical “last meal” that indulges the imagination rather than the appetite. Bill Clinton would nosh on chicken enchiladas. Before his death last year, Ted Kennedy wanted fish chowdah. John McCain just wants baked beans, a rather unambitious meal for a presidential contender.
I’ve asked many people to contemplate their last suppers in detail, but it is an excruciating challenge for most food lovers. I think I’m up to six courses now. It is a pointless exercise, but it doesn’t have to be.
My friend Jane recently turned fifty. I wanted to do something truly special to mark the occasion, so I knew a restaurant wouldn’t suffice. Friends kept asking what we should plan, and I drew a blank. Then I remembered one uneventful night many months before, I asked Jane and a couple friends to write their last menus in a notebook.
So we threw a big party at my place, where we served her fantasy menu. It was a genuine act of love. It was a sly jab at Jane’s suddenly advanced age. It was a glorious forty-eight hour ordeal. It also fell directly on my birthday, and I decided to make the meal all about Jane. My last meal could wait until I was a more respectable age.
This article appears in Jul 15-21, 2010.