Fact: I wasn't dead. After I realized this, I left my quarters. The lightscreen provided had informed me when and where official meals were taking place, but I hadn't bothered to acknowledge the invitations. It hadn't seemed relevant, somehow, given that I was still reeling over the explosion, the deaths of my crewmates, and the rescue. I've heard there are a number of stages of grief and shock; I guess I was working my way through them. Food was delivered to my quarters. Initially, I couldn't figure out why—I hadn't requested any be sent. Then I realized, someone must have noticed I hadn't left, and was nice enough to send food my way. The accompanying bottle of wine was a nice touch. I must have consumed it, too, because later on, the plates and the bottle were both empty. I spent a lot of time lying on my back on the bed, staring up at the little etched swirls in the ceiling, or slumped in the old-fashioned armchair, staring out the windows at the stars. I did a lot of staring and not moving. Man, was it good to be done with that stage. It was time to find out what hell looked like. 
Did he requested for food  and what are the other thing he got with food?
Bottle of beer