‘SHUT UP, GLUTTON,’ he spits in my direction.
His eyes bulge out of his skull as he screams at me, a chunk of avocado from the Sunset Cantina nacho chips he was eating spews out of his mouth, hitting me in the face. I had made the mistake of asking whether there was anything I could nibble on as I started to slowly deteriorate in the dungeon of the South Campus fitness room.
I woke up in the dingy hole after suffering a food coma, most likely from an overdose at Barking Crab, trying to binge on the last bit of local seafood during summer weather.
I was convicted of Hedonism, a crime at BU that relies on capital punishment to set examples to burgeoning hedonists. And today, I was on death row.
‘So what’ll it be, lassie?’ Charlie grunts, asking me what I would desire for my last supper before I turn into a galloping unicorn that urinates white truffle oil. Or whatever happens to people when they die.
This is a life-defining moment ‘-‘- what is going to be the last thing I stuff in my pudgy mouth? After writing a column preaching to others what is delicious, what is not, I had to go out with a snap, crackle and a pop.
But I only had a budget of $20. Capital punishment is controversial for a reason (botched executions, the innocent dying, whatever), but TWENTY #$&#! dollars for a last meal? I’d rather be thrown in Shawshank for life, smuggle in some black lava salt and that gritty cat food won’t even seem as terrible as the cruelly meager allowance for someone’s last meal.
Some guys try to shove 30 tacos down their gullets, some want a cheeseburger and a shake. I have to make do with what I’m allowed and it has to be a sexier choice than fast food. The only viable option is Eastern Standard, in Kenmore Square. I coerce Charlie to chauffer me around Boston in the paddy wagon to find all the ingredients for my perfect last meal, on a budget.
Eastern Standard’s bone marrow ‘shooters’ are only two dollars a piece at cocktail hour. Each bone spills over with with fatty, silky goo that tastes incredibly like a combination of smoke, carcass and decadence.
The cocktails are $10! I can’t thermos my favorite Pisco Sour, an oeuf drink made with bitters. The bartender offers me a Pisco shooter to match the marrows, just’ $4. I brown bag two marrows and force Charlie to leave a tip.
I’m running out of time ‘-‘- and words. I scan the menu and instantly opt for a bed of oysters, each for $2.25. I can only get a single Malpeque because I need room for dessert and my funds are drying up faster than Charlie’s sense of humor.
For my digestif ‘-‘- sweetbreads. Eastern offers ‘daily offal’ for $9 and today happens to be the delectable thymus glands, ripped out of a baby cow and pan-seared, served with a creamy leek sauce. Dungeon-master Adelman purses his lips and narrows his eyes, signaling me to finish digestion before the final countdown.
For just under $20 (and a little finagling) you can find yourself swimming in sinfulness right before you go swimming with the fishies.
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