My last supper
Last july, as I travelled Brazil with my boyfriend, my oldest friend and her brazilian partner, we found ourselves on a stormy night in a crumby little bar in Salvador. The sun was setting as the clouds gathered, creating a view like no other over the cliffs, and the ocean. As I gulped down what might have been my fifth caipirinha - they were exceptionally cheap and it was my birthday - I recall saying « If I were to die tonight, this is exactly where I would want to be, drinking cheap caipirinhas with you in orange plastic chairs ». Having sobered up since, I have reconsidered the question.
As I think about it now, I picture a large garden overlooking a lake. It is late summer, one of those warm evenings when the heat continues to burn long after the sun has set.
Around the table are gathered the six (and a half) most important people in my life : my boyfriend, my sister and her fiancée Clément, my closest friends Latifa and Vincent,along with his girlfriend Elise and they daughter June, giggling.
On our plates sit large portions of pasta smothered in a creamy white wine sauce with black truffle shavings, and crispy caramelized onions. In the wooden bowl that is being passed around, a big salad of rucola and baby spinach with fresh juicy figs and a white balsamic and olive oil vinaigrette. The glasses are filled with good red wine : silky, full bodied, strong, one that taints our lips red.
The playlist has been carefully thought through : it starts off with some Queen songs, « Who wants to live forever ? » and « Don’t stop me now », very appropriate. Michelle Gurevich, Amy Winehouse, Caetano Veloso and Ella Fitzgerald accompany the chatter and laughter during dinner, creating for a nice background.
As the lake turns to a black mirror and night sets in, the mood changes slowly : Elise turns on some of those paper lights she adores and dessert comes to the table. It is simple but delicious, a dark chocolate lava cake, one that flows onto the plate as the spoon digs in, covered in thick blueberry sauce. In our glasses, some Porto wine, a sweet old Kopke. The music takes me back home as Léo Ferré, Serge Gainsbourg and Alain Bashung begin spreading a light feeling of melancholia.
Cuddled up in that nostalgia, and with my mouth still full of the bitter flavor of chocolate, I close my eyes and drift away just as Ferré ends with a scream « C’est extra ! ».