Last Chance for Chitlins

“I don’t know how to make no damn chitlins!” Samuel sputtered as he snatched the request from his aide.  “And who’d want chitlins as they last meal anyway!?” he rhetorically added for, he knew.

Clifton Chance was scheduled to be executed by lethal injection this coming Monday at 9AM and as head chef at the correctional facility Samuel was to prepare his last meal.  These requests are usually bitter sweet in its solemn occasion but it also provides an opportunity to express his culinary skills to the fullest.  So with this forthcoming news he had expected to prepare lamb chops or a nice T-bone with mashed potatoes, gravy, corn on the cob and some rice.  Or at the least a gourmet cheeseburger and fries.

“Chitlins,” he snorted as he folded up the request and threw it in the trash.  “I aint makin’ ‘em,” he further grunted before storming out of the kitchen and beelining to his changing room.  Still fuming, he snatched off his scarf, roughly removed his double-breasted jacket, threw his toque blache into his locker, dressed citizenly then stamped out of the facility.  He was hot, and cold as he buttoned his coat tighter around his neck.  A few seconds later he yanked his hat more snug as he sat and waited for his car to warm up.  Adamant.  “I aint spend ten years becoming a chef to cook no damn chitlins,” he grumbled in silence – shivering, still waiting for the heat.  It was Friday night so that gave him a couple of days to prepare the meal or to at least to go get it, he thought, an idea as he took out his phone and googled and found Bertha’s Kitchen, a soul food joint that cooks just what he needed.  “Cool, they’re open on Sundays, I’ll pick it up then,” he decided as he finally felt warm enough to drive off.

And Sunday came as he now stood in the restaurant speaking with the namesake and owner.  She, elderly, in her seventies and very heavyset in the thighs – just what he pictured someone who cooks chitlins well, to be.  He explained to her the situation and wasn’t surprised to hear that she had heard of Clifton’s case and pending execution.  “Umm, umm,” she murmured as she shook her head at the shamefulness of the entire ordeal before feeling honored and agreeing to make them [extra special and blessed].  Now pleased, Samuel agreed to pick them up early Monday morning, still piping hot and ready for Clifton.

7 A.M MONDAY

And as cold as it was, Samuel drove with all the windows down and his face reflecting the disgust that he had for the smell of this last meal.

“I’d like to go and sit with Mr. Chance, give him company for his last dining experience?”  Samuel suggested to the warden while standing in front of a dining cart with crystal, silverware and a presentation fit for a king.  Not that he actually cared for the company, he just wanted to inquire about the meal request.  “Sure, if he wants you to, you can stay,” the warden nonchalantly replied.  So Samuel wheeled the cart down the hall surrounded by a contingent of heavy security.  Well protected, he felt, but he couldn’t keep the aroma from escaping as other inmates hollered and hooted for a taste of the smell that kept his windows open.

He arrived to find Clifton ready, sitting on his bed with both hands resting on his knees.  “Ahhhh, a meal fit for a king,” Clifton eased as he stood and licked his lips in anticipation.  “Give my regards to the chef,” he added as he snapped open the napkin and placed it under his chin before sitting in the chair that was provided along with the dining cart.

“You aints one of the guards or aides with that nice jacket on so I’m figuring you is the chef.  Is that you?”  Clifton gestured with his fork before he started to dig in.  He adds some pepper and a heap of salt as Samuel responds, “I am the chef here indeed but I didn’t make these chitlins.  I never made them before and I figured it was too important to be playing around.  I got ‘em from Bertha’s.”   “Bertha’s eh?” Clifton perked while chomping and cutting.  “You can tell she can cook with those hips,” he chuckled through his chews before swallowing.  He quickly stops and places his utensils neatly next to his plate before rising and switching back to his spot on the bed where Samuel had seen him when he first entered.  He purposely repositions the cart and the chair, all this within just a few seconds.  “Where’s my manners, my momma would’ve slapped me upside my head. Come sit, come join me,” he demanded towards Samuel as he looked underneath and noticed other trays of food.  “Looks like you brought enough for two, come on, dig in with me,” he demanded as he went back to cutting his meal.

And Samuel did sit.  And not just for two, enough for six to be exact as he reached under the cart and brought out the other trays.  “What’s that there,” Clifton questioned with a point of his steak knife, “you trying to fatten me up for the execution?  Cook ol Clifton eh?”  A joke, but Samuel didn’t find it funny until Clifton laughed.

Since Friday, Samuel was being eaten by the fact that a man who’s about to get executed chose chitlins to be his last meal.  He couldn’t believe it.  Was Clifton that simple or did he feel undeserving?  Samuel knew he had been on death row for nearly twenty years, grew up locally here in Philly and other than a quick stint in the army, this was all he knew.  Maybe he was a combination of both; simple and unworthy.  So Samuel had prepared a few other dishes aside from the chitlins.  Bobotie, with its Asian appeal was one of Samuel’s favorites so he had composed that.  Along with some Kabab Koobideh, who doesn’t like minced meat kababs, he had thought while prepping it.  He added Kenkey with mackerel and egg, Anticuchos and Torrfisk, all exotic dishes that he felt Clifton should at least try before his death.  But as he sat and watched the smile develop on Clifton’s face and the savory chews of each mouthful, he just sat and admired and didn’t even unveil the other dishes he had spent all weekend preparing.  He just watched and observed Clifton rub his stomach, “um um,” a couple of times and kept his eyes closed through the entire feast.  All while thinking he, himself, may have never enjoyed a meal as much as he’s witnessing.  Clifton was on a savory journey with each bite providing a tasteful passage of his childhood, friendships, loves and dreams.  Yes, he could taste the other meals and experience the exoticness of far-away cultures but in this moment, he needed home, he needed to be humanized and be as much a man as necessary to face his destiny.

Done, Clifton wiped his lips, apologized after a belch escaped his throat and announced, I’m ready.  He tooth-picked his crooked teeth, smiled at Samuel and exclaimed, “thank you.”  His last words.