I’M SUPPOSED TO GIVE MY ORDER FOR MY FINAL MEAL. MY final meal. My final meal. My final meal. No matter how I look at it, pronounce it, emphasize my favorite syllable in it, it sounds almost biblical. Doesn’t it?
I’m pondering chicken parmesan, a thick New York strip steak (medium well), or a three-course meal from Le Bec Fin. Yes, if the system worked the way it should—truly granting us a proper last meal—then I would have someone get it for me from Center City Philadelphia. After all, isn’t that why we overspend at expensive restaurants? We want to feel good about ourselves, despite the fact that the food we are eating costs no more to make than a tightly sealed plastic carton of drumsticks from your local grocery store. We celebrate events at fancy restaurants; we introduce friends, future spouses, in-laws. We propose in them, we divorce in them. We tell the world that we are pregnant in them. What we don’t do in them is request our final meals. I mean, wouldn’t we all go back to those special-occasion restaurants if we knew it would be our final meal on the outside? Of course we would. We’d waste no time at KFC or McDonald’s; we’d go straight for Stephen Starr and Gordon Ramsay and tea at the Plaza.
It’s settled, then. Philadelphia was the city where I met Marlene and Sarah. Philadelphia boasts the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and a crime rate worth knowing to anyone in here. Philadelphia is proud to host Le Bec Fin, and so, no matter what it costs, they will get some exposure from my request. Just as I would have wanted to tell my mother there that I was graduating from college or getting married or having a baby, I’ll at least celebrate this way and tell her good-bye with class.
I think I’ll start off with Escargots “Persillade.” I’ve never had escargots. To be honest, I think I’m choosing it because I want to watch everyone mispronounce it. The sheriff says, ass-car-got, just like a redneck from Arkansas. My new neighbor has never heard of it and prefers to avoid the subject altogether. She’s looking forward to having s’mores and a burger. (She used to love campouts. Sadly, that was also where she killed her husband and his lover, but I digress.) Next, I’ll move on to Beef Bordelaise, with Crispy Purple Sweet Potato, Mustard Greens, and Wasabi. It might take a while to pronounce, but I will savor each moment. Of course, I’ll finish the meal with a Trio of Sorbet. If only they would let us drink wine with our last meal.
The three most common last requests are: steak, breakfast food, and nothing. Nothing at all. Honestly, I can’t for the life of me imagine what sort of final protest this pathetic statement stands for. You’re about to die; you might as well enjoy your favorite food for the last few minutes. It’s not like suddenly saying no to something is going to change your fate. No warden is going to see you as humility incarnate for refusing to ingest an absurd amount of calories. Nevertheless, many people refuse. Maybe they have no appetite, maybe they can’t remember what they used to enjoy. But, good lord, it can’t be for lack of hunger. Go force them to find you exactly what you want. One person actually requested sixteen Pepsis with his final meal. Sixteen.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve learned that one inmate requested steak with A.1. sauce, jalapeño poppers with cream sauce, onion rings, and a salad with cherry tomatoes, ham chunks, shredded cheese, bacon bits, and blue cheese and ranch dressing. Lemon iced tea and coffee to drink and ice cream for dessert. Another wanted four fried pork chops, collard greens with boiled okra and “boiling meat,” fried corn, fried fatback, fried green tomatoes, cornbread, lemonade, one pint of strawberry ice cream, and three glazed donuts. Others in coalescence: four buns with lots of butter, lots of salt, and two slices of banana bread. Nine tacos, nine enchiladas, french fries, a salad with ranch dressing, beef fajitas, a bowl of picante sauce, a bowl of shredded cheese, six jalapeño peppers, a strawberry cake with strawberry frosting, and, there it is, the sixteen Pepsis.
This is my favorite, though. One man, who had no final request, asked that a vegetarian pizza be purchased and donated to a homeless person for his last meal. The prison officials refused.
I have to be honest, though, I have prepared poorly for this moment. The final meal, the final words, the final thoughts. It’s all too formulaic. Too contrived. As if it really is a gift to plan for your final moments. I can’t imagine Patsmith enjoyed it. She probably ate breakfast food before she died. Knowing her date was anything but a gift, and, in that, the government met its goal. The gift handed to me by Marlene Dixon, however, was wasted. She supplied me with a vehicle to properly prepare for X-day, and I can’t even figure out what I’m going to eat. I thought the gift was from her all this time, but perhaps I haven’t planned for these final words and this final meal and these final moments because the gift was never from her.
It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, though. I don’t want to be one of those brainless clods who refuses, I don’t want to order fried chicken or fried okra or fried fries, and you’ve got to be kidding me if I’m giving up my chance to finally dine at Le Bec Fin so that someone else can enjoy my service. They can fly it in at whatever cost. They spend enough money here. What’s a little more? It will be like I’m inviting the entire public into my special dinner out for the most important of all occasions. My mother will know the news I have to share. Hell, anyone who reads the New York Times will, too. The only difference for me is that I just won’t walk out of the restaurant. That’s all.