The last supper

Even great chefs play the game, fantasizing about what they would choose for their final meal. C'mon, pull up a chair and join in.

It would start with oysters, of that I'm certain. The only question is, what kind of oysters? Would it be the fried oysters that have always been my favorite part of a Calabash-style seafood platter? Or maybe I would take the purist route with a dozen perfect Kumamotos on the half shell. No horseradish or Tabasco. Just a drop or two of lemon juice on each.

Tempting as these are, in the end I'd probably opt for the two oyster dishes that stand out most in my memory, starting with the way I tasted them for the very first time as a young boy: in my father's oyster stew, a sublimely simple elixir of scalded milk, oysters and their liquor, melted butter, salt and pepper.

Then I'd finally get to relive the memory of that sumptuous first-course presentation of Belon oysters, barely warmed in two subtly contrasting sauces. It's a memory that still haunts me, decades after I enjoyed it in a Michelin two-star restaurant in Paris.

I'm referring, as you may have guessed, to the first course of my last meal on Earth. Not that I actually expect to depart this world anytime soon, mind you. It's a just a game I like to play, imagining what my last meal would be if I could have anything I want.

Turns out I'm not the only one to indulge in this little exercise in gastronomic make-believe.

It's the subject of Melanie Dunea's "My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals," which hit bookstore shelves last year. In this book, you'll learn that Mario Batali's last meal would be a multicourse extravaganza beginning with marinated anchovies washed down with "a bottle of stingingly cold Furore wine" and ending with baba au rhum. He would enjoy his repast with family and friends at a trattoria on the Amalfi Coast, with R.E.M. and U2 playing live.

Like Batali, many of the featured chefs would conclude their stay on terra firma with the cuisines that have defined their adult careers.

Rick Bayless, for instance, would feast on carnitas, chicharron (twice deep-fried pork skin) and Mexican-style barbecued lamb. Others would return to the fondly remembered foods of their childhood, as Gordon Ramsay does with his choice of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

What would Greg eat?

As for me, well, I'd like a little of both -- to have my ultimate cake and eat it, too, you might say.

Having been doubly blessed with a life that began in the rural South and has since allowed me to explore an extraordinarily rich variety of the world's cuisines, I find myself equally drawn to both phases of that life. I couldn't possibly choose between my Daddy's oyster stew and Michel Pasquet's huitres tiedes en deux sauces. And because it's my hypothetical last meal, I don't have to.

The rest of my meal would likewise be a celebration of the best of both worlds. My second course (or two courses, if you prefer) would consist of an assortment of sashimi immediately followed by a whole rainbow trout, pulled from the cold waters of a stream in the North Carolina mountains and sautéed in brown butter.

I imagine I'd be getting rather full at this point, so a pause and a palate cleanser would be in order. A small scoop of yuzu sorbet would do nicely.

My main course would consist of chicken, fried in lard in a big cast iron skillet; and bistecca alla fiorentina, a Tuscan-style steak starring a massive porterhouse of Chianina beef, seasoned with salt, pepper and olive oil and grilled over hardwood coals until it's charred on the outside and rare on the inside.

I'd have a crisp Chablis with the chicken and a grand cru Bordeaux with the beef. Alongside, I would have sautéed porcini, fried okra, ripe heirloom tomatoes, my grandmother's sour pickles and French fries showered with shaved black truffles. Oh, and biscuits and a baguette -- both with plenty of sweet, just-churned butter.

For dessert, I would have hand-cranked peach ice cream, made with dead ripe yellow peaches from the Sandhills. Afterward, I'd wait for the Grim Reaper with a glass of Armagnac in one hand and a cigar in the other.

As gut-busting as this meal sounds, it doesn't include all the things I would like to enjoy one last time before I depart for that great smorgasbord in the sky.

Try it -- you'll like it

But that's the beauty of this game. You can play it as many times as you like and change the meal to suit your whim. Next time, maybe I'll have foie gras and Lexington-style pork barbecue and Peking duck and -- well, you get the idea.

If you've never played My Last Meal, I invite you to give it a try. Just think back on the most memorable dishes you've had, the ones you'd absolutely have to have again if you only had one more meal. You might even include a dish you've never had but have always wanted to.

Give as many details as you'd like -- why you must have that particular dish, what you'd drink, even where you would dine and with whom.

And if you'd care to put these details in writing, there may be a free meal in it -- the real kind, not hypothetical -- for you and a companion. That's right, The News & Observer is sponsoring a contest, and the prize is a review dinner for two with my wife and me. Deadline is noon on June 17.