It seems somewhat appropriate that humankind’s mortality and gluttony meet face to face in that last stronghold of brutality and barbarism in a civilized democracy – capital punishment. A final drag on a cigarette, as the shackled revolutionary defiantly stares down raised barrels, or the opportunity to etch one’s place in the annals of history with a cutting barb à la Marx (“Go on, get out. Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.”), it’s the final countdown to placate our ever-hungry never-satisfied appetites.

Whether or not you agree with the sanctioned extermination of a human being’s life, we all havea certain morbid curiosity with what tastes grace the palates of death row inmates, and if this list is any indication, plain and simple seems to be the trend.

Which makes My Last Supper such an enlightening peek into the minds of celebrity chefs. Multi-course exotic feasts juxtaposed against mother’s home cooked meals – it seems even these culinary masters are divergent when it comes to gustation – go figure. As one victim astutely points out, you really have only two choices: “to have a meal you’ve never had before, or to relive a meal you’ve already experienced.”

In his introduction, Anthony Bourdain sheds light on why the last supper (not that one!) enthrals the mind of the cuisin-artist:

“If cooking professionally is about control – about manipulating the people, the ingredients, and the strange, physical forces of the kitchen universe to do one’s bidding; always anticipating, always preparing, always dominating one’s environment – then eating well is about submission. About letting go.”

Extreme sports enthusiasts will say that’s the reason they attempt insane skiing stunts at the top of mountains, flying over ancient Chinese battlements, or facing certain doom with a well pressed shirt. Death, that ultimate finality, the stamp on our passport that seals our fate, is the ultimate thrill ride. Or at least the threat of it…

For who among us are ready to take that final shuffle off this mortal coil? Suicidal readers need not raise your hands… Are you ready to look the grim reaper in the eye, take one sweet last breath and step into the light? Death is what defines our life – we are truly remembered by our peers when we are long gone, and they sit around a blazing fire, making toast in our honour. The king is dead, long live the king…

So what about my last supper? That menu has yet to be composed, but when the time comes, your place will be reserved.

It’s summertime, and while the living is easy, restlessness hangs in the air. Its muggy tendrils slither down throats, gently suffocating our collective psyche. In the land of make believe, boulevards of broken dreams bring me to a scorched and barren wasteland. My imagination raped and brown bunnies mocking, I struggle to comprehend this Inland Empire. A clever stratagem, shock and awe: on the battlefield, sheer dominance leaves combatants battered and bruised and always confused. Something is rotten in this state of hyper-reality…

Hush now, do you hear the siren’s seductive call? Her symphony of destruction entices and enchants. Oh, to be Odysseus… satisfaction is risky business. Transfixed upon the why, I stand on the banks of the Rubicon and hesitate. Frozen in this moment, I’m reminded of a tautology from the good words of Melvin Kaminsky: Everything that happens now, is happening now. Time is never time at all, it keeps on slipping into the future.

I’ve been searching for truth and clarity, and all I see are the ripples I’ve caused.

But that’s the whole point, n’est-ce pas? I wouldn’t want to disappoint.