On the following pages you will read, with delight, amazement, envy or some combination thereof, what some interesting people consider the best meals they have ever eaten.
I have read these stories and I am, frankly, ashamed. When it comes to meals of almost any sort, my memory is bad; so bad that I am often hard-pressed to remember what I had for dinner the day after having it. So, when I read about Jacquy Pfeiffer getting sentimental about a peasant bread long ago consumed or Erin Bailey rhapsodizing about a bouillabaisse that was for her a “turning point” years back, I feel so lacking.
This is not to say that I don’t enjoy fine dining. I do and could tell you my favorite places for ribs, burgers, pizza, Italian beef, tacos and, yes, even some more exotic fare. I just don’t remember much about textures, sauces and the other things that foodfolk do. Asked about my best meal, I would have to say, “My next meal.”
I do, however, vividly recall the worst meal I ever had.
I do not remember the name of the place, and that doesn’t matter. It’s unlikely it still exists; the meal occurred in 1971 in a small restaurant on the ground floor of a building on the beach in the town of Estepona on the southern coast of Spain.
I was living there, writing lousy short stories but paying only $40 a month in rent. Having sold a story and gotten a check for $20, I decided to splurge and went to what was then deemed one of the best restaurants in town.
The dinner began badly, with a waiter spilling more wine on the table and on me than in its intended glass and the evening became such a horror of bad service and a parade of undercooked, overcooked (and perhaps even rotten) courses that by the time I ordered dessert, the young woman I was with said, in horror, “Are you insane? Let’s get out of here.”
I explained that I felt this to be a rare opportunity: If the dessert was of the same caliber as the rest of the meal I would, at a very tender age and for the rest of my life, be able to easily answer the question, “What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?”
This was a risk, for the dessert ordered was simply “sliced pears.” But–Eureka!–they arrived dotted with some sort of smallish crawling insects. They seemed very hungry, so I let them eat.
