IMG_1266Last film, Last Meal

Paul Bartel the actor died one night.  Paul’s young English nephew was devastated upon hearing the news of Pauls’ passing.

“Oh Mummy,” He said to his Mum,  “it’s so terrible that Paul died so suddenly.  He absolutely adored film and just last week we went to see Gladiator and it was dreadful.  It will have been the last film he ever saw.”

“Don’t feel sad about that.”  His mother replied.  “The night before he died he saw the Croupier and he loved it!”

This cheered the nephew thoroughly.

This reminds me of the last meal I had with the women I was with for what seemed like for-fuck-sake-ever.  She wanted to go to True Food Kitchen instead of Cora’s.  It was an uneventful restaurant experience that was completely incongruent and unworthy of being our last meal together.  As far as places we had eaten together as a couple, that meal of kale salad and a turkey burger (we ordered the same thing,) wouldn’t even have rated on the bottom of a bell curve of our dining history.

The best part of our relationship together was our culinary experiences.  If our relationship together could have mirrored our dining history we would have had the perfect relationship.  We ate at the best restaurants in every city we visited from the three-Michelin-Star-rated epicurean behemoths, to the badass lowbrow hole in the wall venues where the all the trendy chefs frequented after work.

Together our gourmand enthusiasm juxtaposed every other aspect of our relationship behavior.  If one of us was angry, both of us reverted to a communication style that verged on prehistoric.  We liked to joke that we were like desert people, fighting for peace in the Middle East.  Although, also analogous to that region, there was always discord and dissent raging between us.  I couldn’t help believing in the marrow of my bones that whatever battle being waged was some residual past life trauma being reenacted in the present.  As my Australian mechanic used to say about my Jeep CJ7, “There’s something fucking Diabolical going on in that engine!”

Ironically, our relationship ended lovingly, with more mutual adoration and respect than we had ever been able to achieve while we were together.  I have a feeling that one day all the nuance, meaning, and purpose of our relationship will reveal itself to me and I’ll laugh my fucking ass off.  But tonight, I must watch the Croupier and cry, as Clive Owen repeats several times in the voice over, “Hold on tightly, let go lightly, ”