Two Lucky

“What is your ideal last meal?”

This was the question posed by reporter Serene Lim to seven renowned chefs in Singapore in the most recent issue of 8 Days magazine. In the article, Ms Lim asked the chefs, among them including Messrs. Eric Teo of The Mandarin Hotel, Edward Voon of Aurum, and Willin Low of Wild Rocket, what their ideal last meal would be, and why.

The point of the article, though unsurprising, is a good one. At the end of the day, what these truffle-hoarding and foie gras-packing cooks yearn for is a dish brewed with love and steeped in old memories. The best chefs, in their collective opinion, are mothers and wives.

“Nostalgia plays a big part in how I view food,” said Mr Low, 45, whose last meal he hoped would be his mother’s cabbage porridge with dried shrimp, mushrooms and minced meat. “It’s a powerful substance which brings you back to a particular time and space.”

To others, what ends up on the plate is less important than the hands that put it together.

“Any fish dish prepared by my wife,” said Mr Ronnie Chia of Tatsuya. Added the 40-year-old, whose Japanese restaurant ranks among the top in Singapore: “If it’s your last meal, don’t you want a loved one to be cooking for you?”

We respond to food - the smell of it, its color and flavors - in the most visceral way. Food moves our bodies, but it also nurtures memory. You don’t have to be a critic to remember how a dish made you feel. In a way, it is the most complex of emotional triggers - put aside your paintings, songs and letters - nothing quite warms the soul as food prepared especially for you by a loved one.

I was unprepared for the emotions that welled up as I read Ms Lim’s article. I remembered in the last weeks of Rusty’s life how food, or the lack of it, had become an indicator of his dying body. I watched with horror his bones jut out from under his skin, tracing their sharp edges against his jaw-line, ribs and elbows. He had not eaten in days, and when I asked him if he were hungry, he replied, as if it were the most reasonable answer:

“But I already ate two slices of cucumber.”

Two nights before he died, I made for him a meal of steamed halibut, with a dash of white wine, sesame oil and lemon juice. I served it with his favorite tea - mint with cucumber and honey. He ate only half of it, but it was the most he had eaten in over a month. As he sat in his chair, pushing each small bite into his shrunken body, I was overcome with joy and despair. I knew he was eating to make me happy. “It’s so good, baby,” he whispered to me from across the room. He raised his thumb up. He winked at me.

I did all I could from breaking down. That was Rusty’s last meal.

The day he died, I couldn’t stop worrying if he would have enough to eat, or drink. I wondered in the days after the fact who, among the angels and demons, would make sure he had his water by his bed, or a slice of toast for him in the mornings. The idea of a “last meal” was blocked from my mind. Of course, of course, he still needed to eat.

Since then, I’ve grown sensitive to many different foods, all flavored with the memory of our lives together. Not a moment slips by - in restaurants, in friends’ apartments, or at home - as I’m eating, do I not think of Rusty, and wonder if this or that dish is something he would like, or not. I now eat for the both of us. In this small way, I continue to nourish the memory of the man I love, and take some comfort knowing he has yet, and never will, come to taste his last meal without me.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 20th, 2007 at 8:37 pm and is filed under New York, Singapore. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.