In one of Anthony Bourdain's books, he talks about how he and his chef friends used to meet at Blue Ribbon Sushi late at night, after their shifts were over, and the conversation would inevitably turn to the Death Row Meal: what they would choose for the very last meal of their life. For virtually everyone, the choice wasn't some fancy dish from a five-star restaurant, but rather either sushi (go figure) or an old childhood favorite: their grandmother's spaghetti and meatballs; their father's chicken pot pie; a couple of slices of warm, buttered bread.
It's that way for everyone, I think. When I think about what I'd want for my last meal, what's always popped into my mind has been my mother's spaghetti with meat sauce and homemade biscuits with lots of butter. But then, a couple of years ago, I had a meal that was so perfect, so delicious and hearty and comforting and exactly what I want to eat all the time that it immediately vaulted into the Death Row Meal position.
Sorry, mom.
It's this.
