It's a game chefs have been playing for decades.  In the wee hours, when the restaurant has closed and they crack open a bottle of wine, the great chefs of the world ask each other, "If you were to die tomorrow, what would be your last meal on earth?"

In her wonderful book, "My Last Supper" Melanie Dunea, an award-winning photographer, asked fifty of the world's top chefs to play this famous game.  The portraits she created are nothing short of stunning, but it's the interviews that make the book so compelling that I open it up, begin reading, and find that hours have passed by the time that I lift my head.

Dunea asked her subjects what would they eat, where would they eat it, what would they drink, would there be music, who would be your dining companions and who would prepare the meal.

Marcus Samuelsson said that he would "sit as close to the water as possible, at a low table" and that in his dream world, "Miles Davis would perform live." He would want the meal to "embody the fact that I have lived a great life, full of rich experiences and to grab at what's left while I can. The food is not that important."

Nancy Silverton makes the exceedingly cogent point that"for a last supper one really has two basic options: to have a meal you've never had before, or to relive a meal you've already experienced." Every time I re-read her interview, my floods with the memories of all the truly great meals I've had:  the night my husband and I sat up drinking cava, Spanish champagne and eating tapas at a bullfighting ring in Spain;  a Christmas Eve dinner at a Chinese restaurant with my  husband, my friend Gretchen and her family, any of a dozen meals I've shared with my friends Cassandra, Liba and Karen.  Yet, I think if I were to imagine my last supper, I wouldn't try to relive a meal from the past, but to move gamely into the future -- whatever was left of it.

Eric Ripert said he'd want a simple but decadent meal of toasted country bread with butter, rock salt and black truffles. This spoke to the notion raised by Anthony Bourdain in the introduction that:

It's remarkable how simple, rustic and unpretentious most of these selections are. These are people who have dined widely and well.  They know what a fresh white truffle tastes like.  The finest beluga, for them, holds no mysteries.  Three hundred dollar a pound otoro and the most unctuous cuts of Kobe beef are, to them, nothing new... Which is to say chefs know the good stuff. And they get a lot of it. And yet, when we ask ourselves and each other the question what would we want as that last taste of life, we seem to crave reminders of simpler, harder times. A crust of bread and butter.

While many of the chefs in the book would have the staff of their restaurant or other famous chefs cook for them, Eric Ripert would make his own last supper.  "It is a very simple and amazing meal.  I would like to prepare it for myself, for the pleasure of doing so one last time."  His interview, and many others in the book, remind me that while I have many lofty goals: professionally and financially, one of the greatest pleasures in life is available to me.  In fact, tonight, after I finish writing this post, I will prepare a simple Spanish meal of garlic shrimp and toasted bread with olive oil for my husband.  (If you want the recipe, let me know!) 

As a rule, I avoid morbidity. And my temptation was to respond to the book as Guy Savoy did to Dunea's invitation: "Dear Madame, I thank you for your note and am touched by your admiration.  Nevertheless, I have a phobic rapport with death, and because of this, I will never discuss my last meal!  This returns me to my life's philosophy: I talk about openings, not closings. Receive, dear Madam, my best wishes, Guy Savoy."

But the game beguiled me, because ultimately, it's not about death, it's about treasuring life and living it to the fullest.  As I read and re-read the stories in the book, I'm struck by how much it inspires me to cook great meals and to share them with the people I love.

So I've decided to play.  I have been thinking about it for days, but in the end, it wasn't hard to choose.  If I were to choose my last meal on Earth, I'd go for a smorgasboard of seafood:

Platters of of coquillage, fresh shellfish, served on ice, from a little fishing village on the coast of France.

Salt cod prepared in my 3 favorite ways: with rice and dried shrimp, in a Panamanian dish I love called "one pot,"  as a French brandade and as Spanish bacalao. 

I'd have fried oysters from one of my favorite New York restaurants, Blue Ribbon Brasserie. The oysters there are always flawless, fried but never greasy, served on the half shell on a bed of something that I can only describe as a spoonful of delicious.

The drink would be champagne all evening long, Nicholas Feuillate is my favorite.

I'd move from the oysters onto grilled lobster, served with little pots of melted, warm butter.

There would be more seafood: yellowtail and scallion sushi, miso cod and wasabi mashed potatoes, clams and chorizo.

I'd be surrounded by family and friends. In my dream world, the late, great Celia Cruz and Tito Puente would perform and there would be as much dancing as there would be eating. At the very end, I'd cleanse my palate with an icy cool dish of grapefruit and black pepper granita.

What about you?  If you were to pick your last supper, what would it be?