HBO / Will Hart

Despite the outcry, our columnist thinks the final episode of “The Sopranos” last Sunday night was a great way to end a memorable meal.

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Heights Lowdown: ‘Sopranos’ fan waits for Tony

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Let’s see if we can tie this all together.

My family hadn’t sat down for a meal together for a long time. For whatever reason we just hadn’t gotten together like we always did on Sundays. With the appetizers, pasta, main course, coffee, dessert … the whole nine yards.

But today, here we are, just like old times. It’s been a while since we gathered around a T.V. — maybe “Seinfeld,” maybe “Moonlighting,” possibly “Cosby” or “Cheers” and definitely “M*A*S*H” — but once the last meatball is devoured, here we are again catching the last episode of a beloved series.

The song kicks in, the credits roll, the kids are sent to the playroom for “Cinderella,” the baby is put in his crib and the adults begin their last ride with Tony down the Turnpike.

We all had our predictions: Walnuts is going to whack him; the entire family will get killed; A.J. is going to kill his father; and, my personal favorite, Dr. Melfi, upset that she has empowered Tony all along, puts a bullet through his head.

So the story plays out — Janice appears to be her old self; Tony brokers a deal to save his own life, end Phil’s, and avoid a mob war; the FBI agent is on Tony’s side; Uncle Junior isn’t faking his Alzheimer’s; Meadow’s heading to law school; Walnuts gets a raise. A.J.’s a happy kid again; and Tony is looking down the barrel of a weapons indictment.

Which brings us back to dinner, where we’re all headed again.

We walk into an ice cream parlor and check the place out. We make our way to an open booth, flip through some songs in the jukebox before choosing (of all things) “Don’t Stop Believin’.” We check the place out again. Who’s here? Some Cub Scouts. Cool. A couple on a date. Great. That guy over there looks like a truck driver. He’s got a coffee, lots of cream, lots of sugar.

A bell rings. We look up. Thank God. It’s just Carmela. Have a seat honey. The kids are on their way? OK. The song builds. Another bell rings. Who’s this guy? Looks Italian. Wait, that’s A.J. But that guy at the counter in the weird jacket. OK. What’s he looking at?

A.J.’s talking about work. Buck up, kid. Where’s that guy in the jacket going? The bathroom! Don’t we know better than to sit by the bathroom? Well, at least we can enjoy these onion rings. Best in the state. Haven’t we heard that before? Oh crap, what the hell are we doing here? Who are those black kids by the jukebox? Is that guy still in the bathroom? And what the hell is taking Meadow so long? When is she going to get he —

Ding.

We look up.

Blackness. Silence.

There’s no helicopter to lift us out of this hell. “Goodbye” is not spelled out for us like it was for Hawkeye Pierce.

We’re all back in the living room, sitting in silence. A chuckle from my dad breaks it up. The kids are asleep as Cinderella heads to the ball. The baby starts to cry in the bedroom. We change a diaper, pack up our stuff, grab the leftovers and kiss everyone goodbye.

“So whaddya think?” the wife asks.

“I think it sucks to be Tony Soprano,” I say. “That last scene — that was the most excruciating five minutes of my life.”

We stop at a light.

“But you know,” I say. “It was really great to have dinner with the family.”

©2007 The Brooklyn Paper