The Last Supper

In one of the kitchens that I use to work in many moons ago, we use to play a game during service every now and again. Now it wasn’t one of the many horrific games that cooks and chefs play upon each other, which many people hear of. In fact it was a rather gentle game called – Last Supper.

The game consisted of each member of staff listing what they would chose to eat if they only had one meal left in the world to eat, what they would drink , where and with whom would they like as company.

The game usually consisted of everyone trying to outdo everyone else, with meals ranging from foie Gras, Grouse, Oysters and caviar to name a few. Obviously washed down with finest vintage champagne or an amazing bottle of Pinot Noir, surrounded by people such as John Lennon, Elizabeth David, Ghandi and surprisingly Margaret Thatcher (needless to say the person who said Margaret Thatcher was locked in the walk fridge for a very long time).

After spending the past seven days with my parents in their small place in Northern Cyprus, and as my dad brutally told me, having reached my middle aged years, I realise that all my previous answers when playing “Last Supper” are totally irrelevant. I have at the grand old ripe age of 34 realised what my Last Supper would consist of and with whom.

Each morning whilst been away I have had the perfect meal cooked for me which would constitute my Last Supper. Something so simple yet evokes memories spanning back to my childhood and formative adult life. Poached Eggs on Toast, cooked by my mum with a bit of HP Sauce and a cup of Yorkshire Tea, sat at a table with my family. Believe me nothing tastes as good as my mum’s poached eggs. The whites are always firm with no straggly bits and the yolks are always perfectly runny. They are always placed on top of good farmhouse toasted white bread with a generous amount of salted butter spread on the toast. Come hell or high water, my mum has cooked them every time I have asked. Through years of her despairing at me for been the teenager from hell, through break ups, deaths and of course the very rebellious years (which were very despairing for her, though she has never said so and for that I am eternally grateful) , she has cooked them for me.

So there you have it, that’s my perfect “Last Supper”, Poached eggs on Toast cooked by my old dear. Believe me, I have had a fair few food epiphanies in my time, Blood Orange Jelly at St John’s, Iberian Ham in the depths of Andalusia and proper Thai Massaman Curry topped with a fried egg on an island in the midst of the Adaman Ocean. I guess what I’m trying to say is I like the small pleasures in life and that’s what makes me happy. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge paying quite a bit of money and eating great amazing food, cooked by some of the world’s greatest cooks and chefs, in fact I love doing it. But it’s the small pleasures of life that make me the happiest.