The Synoptic Gospels recount Jesus Christ’s Palm Sunday entry into Jerusalem on a donkey.

Seven days later the preacher had been betrayed by Judas, arrested by the authorities, tried by the Romans, crucified on the order of Pontius Pilate, buried in a cave, and rose from a deathlike coma a week later.

Over the centuries scholars have debated the date of the Last Supper. Most Biblical experts agree that the even took place sometime between AD 30-36 with one physicist, Colin Humphrey, pinning down that mythic repast with Jesus and the twelve apostles to April 1, 33CE.

A tumultuous eight days.

To celebrate Passaich one of the apostles hired a room just outside the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem in a joint called the Upper Room perhaps run by an Essene from Bethany, who must asked joked, “Everyone know what they want?”

“Something traditional,” a member of the thirteen probably punned with a shrug.

There wasn’t much of a choice.

According to culinary historians the Saarmeal consisted of leaven bread and other food cholent, a stewed dish of beans cooked very low and slow, olives with hyssop, a herb with a mint-like taste, bitter herbs with pistachios and a date charoset, a chunky fruit and nut paste.

No one ever said it was a good meal, but things soon went south with Jesus’ arrest by the Temple guards of the Sanhedrin in the Garden of Gethsemane. His enemies within the temple wanted him gone and nine hours later Jesus was dead on the cross.

No last meal.

At least none I can find.

The Temple hierarchy really didn’t like him.

A lot.

Last Passaic after a long walk to the Brooklyn Museum to view Jimmy DeSana’s SM photos Dakota Pollack and I dined on cod, sweet potato, and broccoli.

Not glatt kosher, but none of it tref.

And since I don’t drink anymore. No wine.

No beer either.

Sei gesund.

ps there is no such thing as a good kosher wine.

Feh.