My last supper is simple. An ice-cold vodka shot. Double, preferably. Sharp, punchy, show-offy. Why not go out as you lived: being drama queen-ish. If there’s no booze, then steak, please. Dangerously blue. At this point, what will there be to lose?
I enjoy my fancy-dress-box wardrobe, my mash-up tunes, and my on-again, off-again relationships, but I’m not interested in complex food. I like simple bites (convenient when you hate cooking). I stand at the fridge munching a cucumber for dinner. A tomato. Some ham. Squares of cheese.
For a while, this fitted gloriously with a trend for serving simple dishes; when restaurants reduced menus to grocery lists. Out went drizzling and stacking; in came mains that read: broccoli, pine nuts, chicken. Bliss.
To read the rest of the article, check out: http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/Magazine/article1553470.ece