Okay, let’s say the Feds have finally caught on to your life of crime –you’ve been going on a killing spree, shooting in cold blood every person who says “You have such a pretty face” and then sighs heavily looking at the rest of your body– and you’re sentenced to sit in Ol’ Sparky at the state courthouse bright and early tomorrow morning:
What’s your last meal?
I honestly don’t know what mine would be, because all the great meals I’ve had that I’d want to recreate –the Snug Harbor at Fred’s in Annapolis, where my grandparents and I would go as a special treat, the incredible Taverna burger with Greek-seasoned fries at Dave’s Taverna in my little college town, the eggs over easy at Cafe Edison in Times Square the morning after Andre proposed– wouldn’t be much of anything without the company. It would be edible nostalgia, and for the most part, food nostalgia is lost on me.
I’m not Proustian by nature and if someone slipped me a madeleine I’d be all “delicious! Can I have twelve more to go and a cup of tea please? Cream no sugar. I’ve got to get back to work.”
So I suppose I’d go with toast. I’m always happy to have toast. Toast and jam, toast and butter, cheese toast, shrimp toast, toast with cream cheese and preserves. Toast with runny egg. Anything except Marmite.
What about you?