Some people thought it was grisly when I won the contract. I make last meals for prisoners on death row. It’s a good contract, the food is good—pricey, but good—and we deliver. But I want to make this clear: I’m into food, not death. I didn’t write the contract, I’m just honoring my obligations.
It’s like any other deal. There was an RFP. I guess the executioners liked what we’re offering. I wonder if they get the leftovers. Whatever the reason, they picked me.
Some people are annoyed, and they say we’ve downscaled that critical final dinner, just because everything we make is put into a wrap. I don’t see it that way. I like wraps. They’re less messy than the alternative. Who wants to go to their execution with food stains on their orange jumpsuit? That, in my opinion, would be déclassé.
So, when the date is set, the prisoner comes the me and ask, “What’s for dinner, Pierre?” Then I pullout a menu.
We consult, usually for about an hour, with a guard standing by tapping his feet and frowning. I help him (or her) pick out an amuse bouche to prepare palette, usually a tiny canapé of some sort. Then, a fine soup, often a lobster bisque. Finally, the main course in a wrap. Many still go for the traditional high quality aged sirloin steak, but I try to steer the them toward something more exotic and memorable, although under the circumstances a short memory will do.
Now, I’m a little concerned. They are talking about changing the method of execution in this state. They seem to be having difficulty with the electric chair and the drugs. So, they want me to poison the desserts. I can’t do that. My lawyer is reviewing the contract. If I can get out of this, I’m done. It’s a wrap.