Listen to me: Do not make the classic blunder of overeating before they bring the best. In this temple to gluttony, show restraint. There’s a steak you want, and if it’s not the first to be knifed onto your plate, ask for it. It’s the picanha. Pee-cahn-yah. You won’t find it in an American steakhouse—Brazilian butchers carve up a cow’s rump differently. The top is covered with fat, seasoned with rock salt, and cooked over flames so the fat seeps down and blends with the salt to remind you that you didn’t climb to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian. Ask me where I’d go for my last steak and I couldn’t say exactly. Maybe Marius in Rio, or Plataforma in New York, or Porcão in Miami. I’d keep waiting for more picanha, and the meal would never end.

My official last meal is a banana-nut muffin. It’s not even a particularly fresh one. Some advice: Look at your next muffin. Really fucking look at it. Imagine that muffin is the last bit of food you will ever stick in your mouth. If I could do it over again, I’d make sure everything I ate was an endangered animal’s heart on toast with foie-gras crumbles and black-truffle shavings. I mean, fuck. A goddamn muffin.