The Condemned Man ate a Hearty Meal

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