The condemned man ate a hearty meal… Noble Rot asks some well-known names what they would choose for their last supper. Words by Mick Dean Illustrations by Jay Wright 44 Noble Rot Noble Rot 45 T he sea of poppies in the moat of the Tower of London for last year’s Remembrance Day made many consider how lucky most of us are nowadays, not having to deal with the contemplation of imminent death on a day-today basis, as those fighting wars have to. The thought of ‘standing to’, with bayonets fixed, waiting for the dawn and the whistle to attack – and knowing full well what you are in for – would fill me with dread. What would you think about in a similar circumstance, to try and distract your mind and stop yourself from going mad or running away? I’ve had two near-death experiences, one of which was an in-depth examination by the Inland Revenue (that was certainly a bowel loosener). Let me tell you about the other one. London in the 1970s was a great place to be, especially as a busy advertising photographer. There wasn’t much competition, there was ‘loadsa money’ and everyone was out for a good time. Clients expected to be wined and dined and the word ‘lunch’ had a rich and resonant meaning; a threehour, five-course, intensely alcoholic and finished-offwith-cigars sort of meaning. Towards the end of one of these lunches, I was reliably informed the following morning, that I’d agreed to do an underwater shoot in the Bahamas and had assured the client that yes, of course I’d done loads of shoots like this before, no worries, no problems. 46 Noble Rot In the cold light of morning I realised I had bent the truth a touch: I’d never been underwater in my life. A bit of holiday snorkelling was about my level. The first finger of fear gave my heart a playful prod. Despite me putting in a ludicrously high quote in the hope some other poor soul would get the job, it landed firmly on my doorstep. After some research I found I had three weeks to learn how to dive and how to take photos while trying to breathe underwater so I booked a six-day crash course at the British Sub Aqua club in Plymouth. The centre was located miles outside Plymouth in an old Victorian fort on a windy headland with a small harbour below. Everything was built of massive granite blocks, the bunkroom was in an unheated gun emplacement and a sign in the canteen said, “In the event of the floor being full, please use the ashtrays provided”; Butlins looked like a four star hotel compared to this place. Outside there was a cutting wind – and it was snowing. A second finger of fear tightened its grip. The first session started in the classroom, discovering how easy it is to die underwater, before adjourning to the harbour for a fitness test, to see if I could continue on the course. My personal instructor hailed from central Europe, looked and talked like a donkey and had an unspellable name, roughly pronounced “Sonofabitch”. Pessimism was his middle name. Mercifully, it had stopped snowing, but as I stood at the water’s edge clad only in my budgie smugglers, it transpired that my swimming test was to cross the harbour and return in a set time – and just to make things more interesting, I had to do it blindfolded. The third finger of fear slithered round my, by now, numbed heart. The final test for the day was a free dive down to about 20 feet, to find a submerged cannon and to read the date embossed on it. My first attempt was a dismal failure, on my second I located the gun but ran out of puff, then on the third go I managed to swim the length of the gun but, despite having a good look, found no date. Sonofabitch announced from the depths of his warm, fur-trimmed Parka that we were finished for the day and that it would start to get tough tomorrow when we began using the scuba gear. He advised I eat a hearty supper; it would be unwise to have breakfast, as the last client had suffered a panic attack at 30 feet under and thrown up, filling his facemask. Later, as I stood thawing out in a hot shower, I was forced to admit to myself that I’d bitten off more than I could chew. But I’d given the client my word, and really didn’t want to be made the laughing stock of London. The fourth finger of fear slid into place. A panic attack awoke me at 2am and I was sure this day would my last; the final digit of fear had formed a strangler’s grip round my heart. After an hour of tossing and turning I got up, wrote a farewell letter to my wife and kids and was staring fixedly at the ceiling when I remembered a saying my Dad used every Monday morning before leaving for work (it was a job he hated). He’d put his knife and fork down, push his breakfast plate away and say, “The condemned man ate a hearty meal…” and would then depart for work, jaw clenched. I got to wondering what other condemned men might have wished for their last meal and then, contemplating my own situation, what I’d like to have, given this was my last day on Earth… Thoughts of Château d’Yquem and foie gras came to mind; my mum’s spotted dick and custard, perhaps; even that 1847 Madeira I’d been hoarding for years. Given that tomorrow you were going to die – or worse, have an interview with Her Majesty’s Inspectors – what last meal would you have and what would you drink with it? It could be very simple or incredibly complex (I have hazy but fond memories of a saddle of venison and a 1961 Haut Brion). What would you have? Noble Rot 47 Marina O’Loughlin Restaurant critic, The Guardian Kermit Lynch Author and importer California For some reason, a quote from Hilaire Belloc comes to mind: “I forget the name of the girl, but the wine was Chambertin.” In my case, I remember very well her name, but I’ll keep it to myself. The truffles, however, were black. So, for my last meal, I’ll have her coated with black truffles. To accompany such a feast, a magnum of 1961 Romanée-Conti. A magnum, yes, because big bottles always taste better, and what the hell, might as well go out dead drunk. I’d like toast, lots of hot buttered toast. Nothing fancy: white bread that absorbs so much salted butter it drips down your chin – maybe the ‘heels’ of a Scottish plain loaf. Martinis: at least three, bone-dry, frosty, made from some fine vodka – Tito’s would do. And, if I may, a side order of MDMA. Kiera Knightley Actress I’d like duck rillettes, cornichons, a baguette, green salad with lots of mustard dressing, and a bottle of ‘Les Alpes’ by Domaine Belluard. Why? Taste it. It’s self explanatory. 48 Noble Rot Jean-Marc Roulot Vigneron Meursault Jacques Puffeney Vin Jaune with some mature Comté cheese. Or a 1978 Hubert de Montille Pommard ‘Pézerolles’; there’s no need to eat anything with that! Rowley Leigh Chef I am rather assuming my last meal will be Complan and Morphine, but taking the question more seriously I’d probably say langostines with mayonnaise followed by a game bird and then cheese. But I might fancy some asparagus with fresh morels, or some truffles; it all depends on the time of the year! Noble Rot 49 Jancis Robinson Wine critic John Hegarty Founder BBH advertising and Hegarty Chamans wine Chris Martin Coldplay I’d love the leftovers of Christmas dinner, reheated, with a very cold glass bottle of Coke. I like it when something amazing from the day before is just as good the second time. Not like heroin, I read on Wikipedia. Then I’d like strawberry ice cream that has been left to melt for an hour so, possibly with a coke float. That normally leaves me saying “I’m happy, but I’m never eating again”, which I imagine would help coming to terms with the whole dying business. I would then go on the ‘eternity cleanse’. 50 Noble Rot I’d like either of the two meals which for me can be outstanding – breakfast and that brilliant British institution, Sunday lunch. As I don’t drink alcohol at breakfast – well not so far – I’ve gone for the Sunday option. I remember a particular occasion, a group of close friends and family had gathered on a cold autumn Sunday and we ate rare roast beef, roasted peporanata and the finest Yorkshire puddings that even Jamie would be proud of. Alongside we drank a bottle or two of 1978 Château Certan. I was in heaven. If this was my last meal the anticipation of my next destination, without being too presumptuous, would be no bad thing. The wine has to be Trimbach, ‘Clos Ste Hune’ Riesling 1990. I seem to have tasted it eight recorded times since 2003 and, for what these numbers are worth (not much), have never given it a score of less than 19 out of 20. It is rich but dry and extremely thrilling and full of life. Each time I taste it, it seems as though it will live longer, so it might instill some optimism during my last hours. With it, I’d like some cold food that I could keep on picking at while finishing the bottle from either of our son Will’s restaurants – maybe the chicken liver parfait from The Quality Chop House and the pickled mushrooms from Portland – with masses of bread and butter and a beautifully dressed green salad. Becky Wasserman and Russell Hone Wine importers Burgundy Becky: I’d like five perfect oysters and a glass or two of a Sylvain Pataille Aligoté. Why? “One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple”Jack Kerouac. Russell: A roast pheasant and JF Mugnier’s 1985 Musigny. Magic! Noble Rot 51
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