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John Mariani, last seen proving incapable of finding pizza to eat between the Hudson River and Phoenix AZ, has another of his astonishingly wrong-headed (but undeniably well-paid and expense-accounted) food pieces in the "top wines of the year" issue of the Wine Spectator, now on newsstands. His theme-- raising hopes unfairly; it's purely hypothetical-- is what he would eat were he to be executed the next morning. He begins-- well, no description of his comments would prove credible in court; one must simply give them the rope to hang themselves:



Granted, not the most exemplary of Tex-Mex meals, what with the declassé ketchup, Big Red and (sniff!) Rolos. And the sheer quantity begins to raise the suspicion that the executionee has a final, Rabelaisian joke in mind for the prison's cleaning staff. Still, one can't help but believe that Mariani would look down his nose even at the most authentic plate of humble Tejano food. Consider what he offers as his final earthly repast:



Oh, but why go on, because by this point, even the most indulgent of prison wardens will have sent in one of the more eager maniacs to finish the job and spare the taxpayer the cost of all this striving and putting on airs.

However excellent any one of Mariani's choices may be, the cumulative effect of this globe-trotting from one four-star choice to the next, one precinct of the ultra-rich to another, is depressing. If one's life were to be ended by the hangman the next day, are obese sheiks and obsequious headwaiters really the companions one would choose to see you off into that good night? Would one still be killing time with the game of checking off famous restaurants from one's lifetime list, or carefully rearranging contenders on one's personal scoresheet of the best, as if any of that mattered in the face of eternity?

"Nope, I don't want the overwrought pièce de côte de boeuf Simmental au feu de bois, vert et côtes de blettes, os à moelle, jus corsé from Alain Ducasse's Le Louis XV in Monaco. But I will order the Prime Illinois corn-fed 21-day-aged bone-in rib eye at Wolfgang Puck's stunning new steak house, Cut, in Beverly Hills, Calif.," scribbles Mariani in the grip of his obsession, like a sociopath who still imagines he has the power to pass judgements of life and death upon his victims, rather than being about to have society's judgement carried out upon him.

What Mariani seems insensible to is the fact that, in the face of extinction or divine punishment, all this striving for ever-more-refined sensation, all this worldly vanity, vanishes faster than a waiter's friendship in the face of an 8% tip. Food offers many meanings beyond taste alone, and many consolations other than mere excellence, though admittedly someone whose entire life is led in four-star restaurants may have long since forgotten that fact.

Our earliest memories of food are inextricably bound up with maternal love, community, bounty and want, the teaching of right and wrong, loss, forgiveness-- the simple and basic things that country music concerns itself with. And for those of us who wind up on the gallows, another great country music topic, our thoughts are far more likely to turn back to this plain and simple food at the decisive and final moment. By our crimes, we may have severed ourselves from the community; yet by sharing in the community's plain and honest food once again, as we did at Mama's table, even the worst of us may go home again in our hearts, for a moment, before we get what's coming to us for the terrible things we done. I don't think John Mariani could say that even about Alain Ducasse's pièce de côte de boeuf Simmental au feu de bois, vert et côtes de blettes, os à moelle, jus corsé.

It seems a common misconception that the condemned are given "whatever they want" as a last meal. Not true, of course, and although some wardens may order out, the last meal is (at least to my understanding) limited by can be turned out by yer standard prison kitchen.

Not to put to dull a point on it, but it does seem as though some variation on "comfort food" would be the order of the day. Though I have yet to achieve death row status, I'm the sort of guy who thinks ahead, and I think I'll probably go with the meatloaf, French fries, and perhaps a chef's salad. And catsup.

As I think about it, though, in this kind of critical and final dining determination, one would want to consider the mode of execution offered. I was just kind of assuming it would be the chair or LI, but if I were awaiting eternity in a hangin' state (like, say, Iraq), I might want a bulkier final repast to add dead weight and thus avoid the embarrassment of having my otherwise worthless defense attorneys argue that I swung too long and thus suffered cruel and unusual punishment. In this situation, I think I'd order a case of 3.2 beer (alcohol being disallowed in all prisons I know of...talk about cruel and unusual)...and the fries with catsup.

David "Oh Snap!" Hammond

HI,

I was geared up to comment on last meals are usually confined to the resources of the prison kitchen, too. You got there first to save me the trouble, though I will second your opinion.

Death by hanging has an affect on male prisoners, which is not well known: it causes an involuntary erection.

Since I plan to die the old-fashioned way: unexpectedly. I hope there is no time to worry about a final meal.

Regards,

It's well known to anyone who read Waiting For Godot.

(Beckett, he's no Arthur Wing Pinero.)

Well, that would be something to look forward to, were it not for the unfortunate incident involving Billy Budd. There's no guarantees here, folks.

Somewhere Anthony Bourdain wrote that that's a game chefs play-- choosing your last meal before execution. I can't imagine having any appetite on death row! Ick. I agree-- alchohol is the thing. You read about prisoners in the UK in the olden days being offered everything from "a tot of brandy" (in the case of Ruth Ellis) to a glass of champagne (some guy who commented "It always gives me the hiccups.") That would be right before hanging so, hiccups? Not a problem unless you get a stay.

But if I know I will be dying shortly I will make sure to have some nice food and wine with friends. A friend with cancer called me on his last night after what turned out to be his final trip to the hospital and told me he was eating smoked salmon and mascarpone on a baguette, and what kind of wine he was drinking. Thinking about that conversation gives me a lot of comfort.

A list of final meals for Texan Death Row prisoners since 1982.

My favorite:



...and a partridge in a pear tree.

A somewhat related anecdote:

My father had a colleague who ate eleven slices of bacon for breakfast every single day.

Not ten, and not twelve.

Eleven. Every. Day.

And, he was a Psychiatrist.

E.M.

I wonder if there is a correlation between fried chicken lovers and death penalty crimes. There sure were a lot of requests for fried chicken. I wonder how many of us are at risk?