kathleen cei photo

When I die, I want to be eaten.

I abhor the idea of being preserved in a nest of poly-blend satin ruffles and sealed in a wooden coffin to release unpleasant gases and grow toenails that can't be painted.

It'd also be a crime to cremate my body. Although theoretically I approve of dead people being reduced to vapor and bone ash, in my case it would be a shameful waste.

For, you see, I am made of fine dining.

Twenty years of restaurant writing — at New Times Connecticut (defunct), CT Life (defunct), The New Haven Register (alive) and The New Haven Advocate (duh) — has resulted in beautifully marbled flesh, marinated in wine and slightly smoked (after big meals, I confess).

I've often said that, if I were to have liposuction, I could sell my fat for a fortune ... and maybe I will.

But when death strikes, which I hope will be in the form of a speeding bus or a bowling ball dropped from a sixth-story window — something quick, and tenderizing — I'd like actual cannibals to feast on me, or perhaps hapless friends and loved ones who'd be invited to a seemingly innocent barbecue.

Man, that would be the best meal of their lives.

Until that festive day arrives, I have stories to tell.

Like the time I was on a review — anonymously — and I asked the waitress if the fried chicken I was about to order featured light or dark meat. She looked at me quizzically and said, "Um ... light and dark meat come from two different kinds of chickens, right?"

Or my very favorite waitress story at Nini's Bistro. Nini's, as you know, is quite a small place, and one waitress covered the whole floor. One evening, a regular customer brought his mother in for her 80th birthday. As the wine flowed, the mom became increasingly attached to her server, showing off her un-wrinkled face and making her pat it to check its softness.

"Vagisil!" announced the woman. "I've been using Vagisil on my face for 50 years! You should try it!"

Later, when the mortified son escorted his mother out the door, she turned and announced, loudly: "Honey, I didn't mean to suggest that you need Vagisil!"

Did you know there are lots of hilarious women in the restaurant world? Elaine Chow of Kudeta is one of them.

She once told me about a customer who came to her Temple Street restaurant when it first opened. "She was a real fancy lady from China," Elaine says. "She was there visiting Yale or something, and she called me over and scolded me. (In Mandarin, I believe.) 'This menu is a disgrace!' she said. 'Look at this! You have dishes here from Japan, and Malaysia, and even India! Why can't you make a proper Chinese menu?'"

Elaine made her tiny frame as tall as possible and said to the woman, "Because I am American."

Great comeback. Great sentiment.

It's the best part of my job, you know. The people.

When I first started writing about restaurants — which was because I was a writer, not because I was a foodie — I used to do stealth reviewing. I'd sneak in, unannounced, and have a fine feed-down, and nobody at the place would know they'd been hit until they got a call for a photo shoot. Surprise! Good, great or spotty, the piece was published, and that was that.

I did that for a number of years under a pseudonym, with various levels of success; when my date and I would get free courses we didn't order, plus lavish service and complimentary snifters of cognac, we'd be pretty sure that someone in the restaurant had spotted "the redhead and the black guy," and we'd been made.

I changed my ways, but not because of the failure of anonyminity. It was because I really wanted to support the businesses, and really wanted to get to know the people who made them tick.

Thus, with the help of open-minded and infinitely forgiving editors, I set myself up as a critic that doesn't actually criticize, but rather recommends places that deserve to be recommended, in my opinion.

I based the whole thing on VH-1's Behind the Music — remember that show? — in which I'd decide a place was worth talking about, then return for interviews in which I'd ask about 300 increasingly nosy questions.

Which is how I got to hear some amazing life stories — many of them immigrant stories with their origins in war, loss and relocation in a strange land — and got to know some of the greatest personalities in New Haven County.

I particularly treasure the saga of the Iannaccone family, a tribe of 10 brothers and sisters who grew up in Wooster Square. Some were born in Italy, others in the U.S., which explains why brother Ralph has an Italian accent and sister Elena doesn't.

A number of them went into the food and/or restaurant business; Elena remembers working as a hat check girl at her brother's nightclub, Topper's in Hamden, where she'd sip white wine spritzers and collect tips from enamored customers. Today, she's a well-known wine expert and winner of multiple Wine Spectator awards, earned at her brother's place, Ristorante Luce in Hamden (formerly Raffaello's), and also runs her highly-regarded Bin 100 restaurant in Milford.

Both have worked extensively with brother Gerry, who has been chef/owner of a number of local restaurants, and currently reigns over Cafe Goodfellas on State Street, which has hosted such luminaries as Lorraine Bracco and Al Pacino (met her, had fun; missed him, dang!).

I've learned a lot from these interviews. Practical knowledge — i.e., "Drunken Noodles," a staple on many Thai menus, does not feature booze in its sauce but is extra-spicy so that drunk people can sweat out those two or five extra cocktails they accidentally consumed; and that, in professional kitchens, a whisk is known as a "whip."

But I've also learned philosophical lessons from my restaurant adventures. Jean-Pierre Vuillermet, the chef who has run the kitchen of the excellent Union League Café for decades, once told me about the day that his wine cellar was ruined.

The story goes that, when the old Hyperion Theater was being demolished, something went wrong and the building collapsed, crashing into the back of the Union League. Because the cellar was flooded, the health department forced Jean-Pierre and his colleagues to destroy every single bottle of wine in the place, and to physically smash each one into a Dumpster while an official watched.

"It was difficult," he said in his French-tinged growl, "but I did learn an important lesson: Just drink the wine."

Right! What are we waiting for?

And eat the food, too, made with love. And if there's something on your plate you don't like, or if the service has been disappointing, speak up. Restaurateurs love you and want you to be happy. They certainly have been making me happy for 20 years, as well as delicious.

So, if you're invited to a big barbecue shortly after my demise, dig in, and enjoy!