Push away from the table -- if you can

"And finally, monsieur, a wafer-thin mint."

It's possible that the obsequious maitre d' in Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life" was only forcing one last confection upon a gluttonous, ready-to-burst diner because he wanted to make sure the big spender left the restaurant thinking about making a return reservation.

It is after all, the end of a meal that usually seals the deal.

Forget the cosmopolitan, the beef carpaccio appetizer and the perfectly cooked rack of lamb. What you'll remember most when you walk out of the restaurant in a haze of sugary delight is the flourless chocolate cake and ultra-creamy homemade ice cream.

As Jeremy King told me back when he was the co-owner of the London hotspot The Ivy, "Dessert and coffee service is the most important part of the meal." It's your last chance to make an impression.

Now there's a theory gone wild -- finality in an age of indulgence is not acceptable. Go to most fine-dining establishments these days and there is no end in sight. Finish your meal, eat dessert and then the fun starts.

Little dishes precede and follow the check as if the treats will lighten the blow of an exorbitant bill. Cookies, petit-fours, homemade marshmallows, mints. It's a pleasure parade meant to mask a meal's deficiencies. And it works -- unless the coffee was lukewarm and the truffle broke your tooth.

We welcome those "surprise" extras sent from the kitchen while we're signing the credit card receipt as if it's a sign that we must be important to the restaurateur. The meal will end not when you're ready, but when the establishment is sure they've got you hooked.

But the end of a meal is really a matter of perspective.

Waiters want us to remember the wonderful service come check time. They might suddenly turn up the charm after an evening of ignoring you because you didn't order wine or appetizers. The owner wants to push you out the door, however gently, so the next seating can begin its meal -- sometimes not so gently if a well-heeled regular shows up unannounced.

Sometimes a meal is so fabulous you want it to continue until you can't eat another wafer-thin mint. Others are so horrible you're running for the exit before the plates are cleared.

Certainly there are times when your thoughts near the end of a meal have nothing to do with the food. Is your date's reluctance to order dessert a sign she's having a bad time and is ready to leave? Worse yet, are you running low on funds and are trying to devise a way to persuade said date not to order that late-harvest Riesling?

Anyway, doesn't the end of a meal really come weeks later, when you get that credit card bill and have to stomach writing the check for a night out you might not even remember?

You see? "The end" is flexible.

And that's probably no more evident than at home.

As a child, you ate with anticipation of that last bite and being able to bolt from the table. Depending on the menu for that evening, the ending was something you tried to negotiate. How many more bites before you're free? In a strict home, the end could come before the start: "Go to you room without any supper."

Finally free of your parents and set up in your own pad, you throw a dinner party. Everything goes well. The food is great, you're a charming host. Then that moment comes when dessert is done, the coffee urn is empty but your guests are still there. Short of putting on the PJs, how do you get the lingerers to leave? The end is fraught with uncertainty.

Of course, for the 36.5 million people living below the poverty line (according to the 2006 U.S. Census), and many more who fall into that category snappily called the "working poor," the end of a meal means something completely different: It's time to start thinking about where the next one will come from.