The Last Bite: A Culinary Meditation on Arlene Schechet's “Head on a Plate” Porcelains

During a 2012–13 residency at the storied Porcelain Manufactory in Meissen, Germany, American sculptor Arlene Schechet turned casseroles inside out, firing molds instead of the dishes they normally cradled. This made factory workers laugh and cry: It was both comic and redemptive, making their labor visible. Schechet also employed known forms—plates, bowls, vases—with new twists and juxtapositions. Her Head on a Plate series draws me in the most. From each elegant white plate, something protrudes: in most cases, human heads, but in some cases, a lump of wasabi (“Wasabi Plate [Head on Plate 1]” and possibly “Head on a Plate 4”) or the top of a rooster’s head (“Cock Plate [Head on a Plate 8]”). For the show Disrupt the View at the Harvard Art Museums (2022–25), Schechet mounted traditional and non-traditional plates on treelike supports so that they faced out on all sides of each vertical stem, a bit like jewelry on rotating display cases in a store, or trees bearing fruit, or hollyhocks.

“Head on a Plate 3” especially resonates with me, although when I saw it in person about six months ago, I didn’t know it would. In the center of a gleaming round plate, a deep-blue lump rises up, surrounded by a pool of blue … sauce? water? blood? Over the months, this head on this plate became for me many things.

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A head on a plate initially evokes a stray Brussels sprout—the last bite, which the diner could not finish. It is not the despised Brussels sprout of yore but the aspirational appetizer or side in a good restaurant: tumbled with bacon, pecans, or blue cheese (or all three), or seared with honey and soy sauce and a sprinkling of white pepper. It remains alone on the plate not because it is unappealing but because the eater took or received too many and now must contemplate throwing it away, which incites guilt. It is too small to justify a take-out container, but stuffing oneself when not hungry is also a form of waste, so the conscientious restaurant patron sits, shooing away the server attempting to clear the table, hoping to feel hunger again before others start talking about dessert or calling for the check.

A head on a plate becomes a lion’s head meatball, which gestures toward China, which kept its porcelain-making methods secret for centuries, to the frustration of European royals. Porcelain commanded high prices not only because of its artistry but also thanks to the difficulty of transporting it from China to Europe without damage, thus the moniker “white gold.” The history of the Meissen factory began with a wrongful detainment: In 1708, Augustus the Strong of Saxony imprisoned a young alchemist, Johann Friedrich Böttger, and ordered him to make gold. Böttger, unsurprisingly, was unable to do so but over his years of captivity managed to start producing porcelain.

 A head on the plate evokes both Böttger’s brain and an era when “made in China” meant treasure, not shoddy housewares and T-shirts consumers can’t even give away, once they see how stuffed their homes have become.  

A head on a plate might be a baby potato—one that was burnt or undercooked or had bitter green patches and had to be left behind.

It might be a kumquat on a communal plate, at a gathering where everyone is too polite to take the last piece. Or it’s a large grape, bred for sweetness and the absence of seeds. It’s a scallop, stripped of its shell. A pecan with its shell intact. A small head of roasted garlic.

It’s the head of the cook, for whom dinner occupied brain space all day, even if that cook spent the day doing surgery or archiving the letters of a famous novelist.

It’s the head of the child who is commanded, every night, to leave a clean plate, no matter how repellent the remnants of dinner have become.

Slicing … allows each person to take exactly the quantity desired, rather than discrete lumps, and to eliminate the risk of leaving a head on a plate, which may or may not be bad luck. Why take the chance?

A head on a plate becomes a chestnut on a magic platter that will keep sprouting another chestnut until its owner violates a code of ethics, after which the village will go hungry.

It’s a blueberry from a backyard shrub that birds keep picking clean, although every now and then, the humans get a few.

It’s a blueberry from Costco, where blueberries are abundant, inexpensive, and huge. It has fallen onto the plate from the colander in which its hundred brethren are being washed.

A head on a plate is the head of a grandmother who is no longer present in the kitchen but whose ways still influence the preparation of meals. She washes potatoes before and after peeling, saves the woody stems of asparagus for soup, and rinses rice six times.

A head on a plate becomes the head of an ancestor who survived an ocean journey to make this dinner table possible—an ancestor who might not be as far removed as the word implies. More like a family member who will one day be regarded as an ancestor. Keeping one’s head above water was for this ancestor both literal and figurative, as the possibility of drowning took new forms on land. That threat became more remote as the ancestor won the trust of colleagues and built new relationships. The new land became from day to day less strange, while the homeland became from day to day more strange.

A head on a plate belongs to a dead housekeeper, who has left her head behind to remind the family that there is never a moment when all the work is done, every plate cleared, washed, dried, and stacked in the cupboard. Inevitably, before the dishwasher has been emptied, someone has dirtied another dish.

A head on a plate belongs to a fish whose body the people have just eaten. In the old country, no one remarked on the serving of a whole fish; here, many find it disturbing and stick to fillets, if they eat fish at all.

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I am a whole-fish enthusiast, but sometimes I want my plates to be head-free. On those days, I slice my Brussels sprouts in the food processor rather than roasting or boiling them whole or even halved. Slicing makes them cook faster, which saves energy, and enables seasoning and crisping to reach more surfaces. It allows them to form a bed for fish or shellfish or poultry or meatballs; that bed will soak up the juices and extend the savor of the animal protein. Slicing facilitates even cooking when the sprouts are of varying sizes, as often happens when you buy them on the stalk. It also allows each person to take exactly the quantity desired, rather than discrete lumps, and to eliminate the risk of leaving a head on a plate, which may or may not be bad luck. Why take the chance?

Seared Brussels Sprout Leaves with Dried Blueberries

1 pound Brussels sprouts
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 slices peeled ginger
2 tablespoons dried blueberries
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
kosher salt and black or white pepper

Trim off any discolored parts of Brussels sprouts, rinse well, and drain. Using the slicing disk of your food processor or a chef’s knife, cut the heads into thin (1/8") slices without regard for where the central stem is. Some slices will hold their shape while others will turn into a pile of leaves. Both are fine.

Heat the oil in a heavy 12" skillet (cast iron is great, but a thick stainless sauté pan will work, too) over medium-high heat until oil is shimmering. Add the ginger and toss a few times. Shower in the shredded Brussels sprouts, spread into an even layer, and let cook without stirring until seared in spots (lifting some of them with a turner doesn’t count as stirring—it’s good to check after the first 2 minutes), about 3 minutes. Once some of the sprouts begin to acquire dark, crispy parts, stir and flip to expose other parts to the heat, sprinkling with 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt (or 1/2 teaspoon table salt) as you move them around.

Let them sear for another minute, then stir in the cider vinegar, blueberries, and a few grinds of pepper. Keep cooking, stirring occasionally, until vinegar is evaporated and sprouts are tender with a nice char, 3-4 minutes longer. Taste and adjust salt, pepper, and vinegar, and serve hot.

Serves 4 as a side dish