Daydreams Bigger than my Stomach

Daydreams Bigger than my Stomach

“You wish to order your last meal?” asks the waiter.

“Yes, please.” My daydreams have strayed dangerously close to issues of mortality. “Can I be cheeky and have a five-course banquet including all my favourites?”

“It’s your last meal, sir. You are free to choose what you like.”

“Splendid.”

There is no hesitation over the choice of starter. Every visit to a Chinese restaurant, during the eighties, would begin with this dish. “For my first course I’ll have duck.”

“A whole duck?”

“No.” I’ll avoid the mistake I made as an honoured guest of a soiree in Shenyang. I had mentioned to the host I enjoyed duck, so was offered a rather yummy-looking yellow soup, but when stirred various parts of the fowl’s inner anatomy floated to the surface. I almost needed CPR. Instead: “I would like a half-portion of crispy aromatic duck with plenty of the hoisin sauce.”

My order is dutifully noted. “You’ll be dining alone?”

“It seems so.” My daydream hasn’t stretched to the ideal guest.

“Have you decided on the second course?”

“I’ll order lobster.” I have my Breton connection to thank for the introduction to this most epicurean delight.

“Could, sir, be more specific.”

The waiter makes a good point. You wait thirty years to try lobster and then two come along at once; langouste and homard. If you crave the delicate claw meat then choose homard, but the challenge, for either, is to cook for the optimum time. My first effort, having purchased a very expensive langouste, was more Michelin tyre than star, having over-boiled the beast. Alors, in honour of my first ever taste of lobster. “I’ll have Homard a l’Americaine.”

The third course has to be a curry but which? A Friday night post libation Tikka Massala or an authentic backpacking Thai Green, both warrant a mention in despatches. Perhaps it’s the preferred location for my last meal that might ultimately sway the choice; north London high street or exotic island beach. Either way I’m heading off into the sunset after a ruby murray.

“Is sir enjoying his meal?”

“Very much so, but I might have to undo my trousers a little.” My daydreams are bursting at the seams.

“Do you require a brief interlude?”

“How long have I got?” The thought of another course has me wishing I’d gone easy on the sauce-based dishes.

“It’s your last meal, sir; take as long as you need.”

There are numerous gastronomic contenders for the fourth course but I lack the appetite to address the one question underlying thoughts of a last meal. Perhaps I should wait until I have the answer.

“Is sir ready for the next course?”

“Actually, I’m so full I think I’ll put it on hold.”

“As you wish, but surely sir, you can’t have a daydream of your last meal without dessert.”

“Very true, I can always make room for dessert.”

“A wise decision.”

There lies the issue; I have always had daydreams bigger than my stomach.

“Trifle please…”

[Kindly note that this is part of a wider collection titled ‘Just Crumbs’ — Please refer to the ‘foreword’ page for an explanation.]

As a precursor, I invite you to listen to … Scenes from an Italian Restaurant — Billy Joel

I ask you to imagine the piano man himself as your Maître d’ for the duration of this crumb and consider the composition of your own last meal. Bon appétit.