The last...the very last Wild Mushroom Ravioli

So here's the problem: last night, crazy talented Chef Miguel DeBride of Karma Lounge in Ossining sends out a plate of his home-made Wild Mushroom Ravioli to our table. Everyone "ooohs" and "aaahs" and then digs in. One to a person from the heaping plate glistening with butter and redolent of parmesan and wild mushrooms. Literally nanoseconds later, forks clatter to plates, lips smack and glances are exchanged followed by moans, sighs and eyes rolling into the backs of heads as everyone's taste buds jump up and do a Coyote Ugly meets Footloose happy dance.
"Ohmigod this is soooo good."
"No this is waaaaaaay better than good."

He calls his cuisine "wet and sexy" and he means it. Miguel is from Belize and life and love is different there. (I am considering moving, BTW, if only to see if Miguel hasn't spawned a race of mythical chef creatures whose love of food is surpassed only by their love of sharing it). But I digress. Let's get back to our Ravioli issue.

Another round of ravioli rapture for everyone. And another. And another. Until (gasp) the last ravioli. Once again, glances are exchanged, but this time there is more than a communal, collective "Kumbaya" joy for what Chef Miguel has shared. This time, there is lust, gluttony and the unspoken question as to what gets the last ravioli. (Pick me. Pick me. Pick me.)

Moments pass.
Attempts at conversation are made while furtive glances to the glistening mound of perfection are made. (Maybe I can arrange a suitable distraction....hmmm...What to do? What to do?)

And so it goes... moments turn to minutes and the ravioli sits there
for we are a polite, well mannered and ever-so-civilized group
(maybe if I follow owner Alison D'Elia, herself a master mixologist into the kitchen when she comes to check on us, I can lick the plate in private under the approving stare of Chef Miguel.
("Yeah, man! That's how we do it in the wet and sexy parallel universe I call home")

Then horror of horrors, our next course arrives. This is a bittersweet moment for I know that it will be equally superb (I say this with absolute and total confidence because I am a card-carrying member of the Karma Lounge Fan Club), but still...that poor, poor ravioli. And all that sauce. (Gasp!)
One last round of glances are exchanged, this one accompanied by polite but totally insincere offers:
"Go on. You have it."
"No you."
"No you"
(Ha! Yeah right.)

And then it is gone. (sob!) "Come back. Don't go."

So here's the problem: Odd amounts of food.
Damn. Damn. Damn. It's happened to all of us and it's time to put this to an end.

Solution 1:
Perhaps Chef Miguel could have sent out an even number of ravioli to match our party size. Would it have been too much trouble, Mike? (Alison calls Miguel "Mike" but it just doesn't work for me to have put someone named "Mike" on such a pedestal.) Then none of this would have happened. Ahhhh, but part of me thinks "Mike" was secretly looking to provoke a brawl.)

or

Solution 2:
If he had sent out the plate just to me, none of this would have happened. I would have given everyone a taste (that means one "wet and sexy" ravioli plus one extra dip of their bread to sop up the buttery parmesan sauce) and that last ravioli would have been...to quote Daffy Duck..."mine, mine, mine. All mine!

I vote for option 2. Who's with me?

(Sigh.)

Memories...look so beautiful and then...

Aggghh. See what you did, Chef? I'm singing Streisand. Curses.