On the subject of “last meals,” our collective thoughts generally run straight to the salacious but obviously compelling notion of the death-row inmate’s carefully considered final supper before execution. We have all reviewed the morbid register of actual menus of Texas and California prisoners, with their sad litany of Dr. Peppers, cheeseburgers, ranch dressing (salad optional) and buckets of fried chicken, which invariably leads to the dinner party topic, “If it was your last meal ever….”

Of course, none of us ever cast ourselves in the role of a dangerous offender shuffling down a prison corridor towards eternal damnation: We simply conjure up our most Proustian, esoteric meals in the name of self-expression. While I try to avoid the term “foodie” whenever possible, this really is the ultimate foodie parlour game.

Rarely does breakfast seem to make the cut here. I guess the general consensus is that, as the very last thing you will ever thoughtfully savour and slowly swallow, a simple cheese omelette is going to be hard-pressed to trump a perfectly crusted medium-rare porterhouse or a heap of custardy, peppery spaghetti carbonara. If presented with a Death Row carte du jour, hard to imagine that many of us would opt for the muesli over the Alaskan king crab legs in a foamy, silken puddle of lemon beurre blanc.

Still, isn’t it actually comfort that we’re looking for here? Let’s be honest: Comfort has to be the defining characteristic of the final repast. As much as it is tempting, during heated wine-fuelled dinner party discourse, to strive for Anthony Bourdain-approved heights of culinary eccentricity (rare, perhaps illegal ingredients, a casserole of exotic flesh and sweetmeats, foraged leaves or nuggets unearthed from a faraway pasture navigated only by feral pigs, a laboratory-born canister of vaguely food-scented vapours, etc.), this seems to me to be disingenuous. If it truly was my last meal, I’m not looking for it to put up a fight. I don’t want a challenge. I would like soft, warm and cushiony. Salty, creamy and sweet. I want smooth textures and lightly crisped, burnished edges. There are few meals that can provide the gastronomic embrace offered at breakfast.

I recently enjoyed a morning on the sunny, fragrant Los Angeles terrace of my friend Bob Blumer, within view of the Hollywood sign, surrounded by trees laden with ripening meyer lemons, kaffir limes, blood oranges and artichokes. Bob served me perfectly poached eggs, still warm from his small henhouse, and his own house-cured gravlax. This was a simple, soulful, deeply satisfying meal that I could enjoy over and over again — or, with no regrets or second thoughts, just one last time.

What about you?

Gravlax
1 cup kosher salt
½ cup turbinado sugar
Palmful of cracked black pepper
1 bunch dill, stems and all, chopped
One 2- to 3-pound fillet of wild salmon, pin bones removed

1. Mix together the salt, sugar, pepper and dill. Place the salmon, skin side down, on a large sheet of plastic wrap. Cover the flesh side of the salmon with all of the salt mixture, making sure to coat it completely. Wrap tightly.
2. Place the fish in a large Ziploc bag and refrigerate for 2-3 days, turning occasionally.
3. Unwrap the salmon and rinse off the cure. Dry, then slice on the bias. Suggested : serve with lemon wedges and crème fraîche.

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Image courtesy of djwhitebread.