Anthony Bourdain

Four years.

It was on this date four years ago that the world lost Anthony Bourdain. A flashbulb memory etched so vividly into my consciousness I couldn’t discard it if I tried.

Since then?

Northern California wildfires. The murder of Jamal Khashoggi. Protests in Hong Kong. George Floyd. COVID-19. The advancement of Iran’s nuclear program. Joe Biden is elected President. The Taliban return to power in Afghanistan. Russia invades Ukraine. And much, much more.

Four. Years.

We’ve managed to make the impossible possible. Living through multiple catastrophic events - significant turning points in modern history - in the same breath of time it takes an individual to obtain their undergraduate degree. Congratulations! Your prizes are as follows: an ever-increasing fear of nuclear war, further stripping of women’s rights in the United States and beyond, a housing market on the verge of collapse, and inflation attributable to an economic crisis brought on by a pandemic that is so out-of-control you’ll heavily consider offering handjobs at the local Chevron in exchange for a full tank.

Desperate times desperate measures, people. That Nissan ain’t gonna fill itself!

I feel as if we’ve all been living in the upside-down. Where every component of our lives has some caveat attached to it and, at times, everything around us seems so fucked that the only plausible explanation for what has transpired is that we must be living in some sort of alternate universe. The Truman Show meets hellscape. Be sure to keep up to date with current events, but remain objective because traditional news media outlets can no longer be trusted. Utilize social media frequently, but be cognizant of the algorithm manipulating the content you receive therefore shaping the very way in which you view the world. Etc. Candidly, it’s exhausting. And if this is emphatically the upside-down and soon I’ll be trudging off to face whatever interdimensional monster awaits me on the other side, the least you can do is see me off with a hug and a Diazepam.

Now, hang with me a little longer. This isn’t utter doom and gloom. Life is about perspective, after all. And isn’t that what we miss the most about Bourdain - his perspective?

Perhaps I should have prefaced this piece with a disclaimer*:

*There is a very large voice inside of my head screaming at the top of its lungs…

“What in the Vegas FUCK do you think you are doing? You have NO, and I repeat in case you somehow missed it the first time ‘round with that caveman brain you so proudly possess, NO rhyme or reason to write ANYTHING on or pertaining to Anthony Bourdain. What makes YOU feel as if YOU are qualified? What? You’ve watched a lot of his TV shows and read a book or two? Share photos of the food you eat on Instagram?! Well lah-dee-fucking-dah. Look at you go with your hashtag content. I should commend you for creating an online “personality” based on a basic human need. What’s next? A spinoff highlighting your sleeping patterns?! You DO realize he has a daughter, right? Family. Friends. Loved ones. Former colleagues. All left behind. Ya know, people he actually knew and gave a shit about.”

And while I do hear and acknowledge that inner monologue who by the way is a real son of a bitch… I also stand to recognize that, again, it all comes down to perspective. My perspective is that of the 99%. Those who “knew” Anthony Bourdain through his various television shows, published works, and interviews. And while it may feel silly, uncomfortable, and downright odd at times to grieve the loss of someone you’ve deeply connected with despite never physically encountering, it’s also a large part of what makes us human.

Or at least that served as my justification for throwing back two Negronis and a cheap bottle of Cab while weeping uncontrollably during the opening night premiere of Morgan Neville’s “Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain.” A hazy memory of stumbling out of an intimate movie theatre mid-week. The bottom of my t-shirt damp from serving dual-function as a clothing item and over-priced Kleenex. My eyes puffy and red, crumpled plastic cups in clenched hands stained with whatever remnants I was unable to suck down during the film. And if all of this wasn’t enough, running into an ex-girlfriend’s mother who, upon seeing me, stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me as if I had just sprouted two heads and the second one was now spitting in her general direction. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Of course.”

Okay. So maybe my perspective is not entirely that of the 99%. Do you mean to tell me that there are people out there who self-regulate their emotions and don’t resort to habitual self-sadistic and oftentimes immoral acts of behavior to compensate for their inability to process let alone feel moments of vulnerability?! How boring. Let that pendulum swing, baby!

Another disclaimer*:

*This is quite distinctly a do NOT do as I say nor as I do scenario. Just so we’re on the same page.

Now, in my defense, I must state that I was most certainly not the only one partaking in a good ol’ fashioned let-it-all-out sob fest that night. Rightfully so. But, it got me thinking. How different, er, how special must one be to evoke such powerful emotion(s) from millions of people around the world spanning all walks of life?

The short answer is: pretty goddamn special. And he was.

It’s no coincidence that he found himself thrust into the public domain. One second, breaking away just long enough to inhale an extended drag from a cigarette, standing outside of Les Halles, a casual dining French Brasserie located in the Financial District of the very place he was born - New York City. The next, penning what would eventually become a New York Times Best Seller, “Kitchen Confidential.” The mega-sensation memoir turned hospitality industry bible exposing the underbelly of the culinary world. A follow-up to the already infamous New Yorker piece “Don’t Eat Before Reading This,” Bourdain’s appetizer and inadvertent launch pad. It was the year 2000, and Anthony Bourdain was 43 years old.

“Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles through the rural provinces of France, Mexico, and the Far East, eating only in Hard Rock Cafes and McDonald’s? Or do we want to eat without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria’s mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once.”

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Within two years the book’s success would pull him away from the kitchen. The one place he had spent the entirety of his professional career. Where he was most familiar. Leaving behind his Chef’s uniform in exchange for his new position as a travel television host. A move that Bourdain would jokingly bemoan over the years as his frequent flier miles racked up while his knives sat idle and dulled. He walked away from Les Halles, no longer its Executive Chef. The Foie Gras and Steak Frites would have to wait. And in 2017, owner Philippe Lajaunie would be instructed by a bankruptcy court to close the doors of the restaurant for good.

Before his life and career abruptly came to an end, Bourdain would have gone on to pen 13 pieces of literary work. Two of which, “Bone in the Throat” (1995) and “Gone Bamboo” (1997), surprising to many, were published before “Kitchen Confidential.” Before the globe-trotting, foul-mouthed, machismo Celebrity Chef rose from the ranks of the deep fryer to our television screens like the phoenix donning a Chef’s apron. Later in his career, he even wrote comic books for DC Comics. “Get Jiro!” and “Get Jiro: Blood and Sushi,” co-written with Joel Rose. Graphic, blood and guts visual storytelling set in dystopian Los Angeles and Tokyo where people murder one another over reservations at their favorite eatery, and the latter, following a young man pursuing his passion for cooking while working for his father, a member of the Yakuza crime syndicate.

Oh, and by the way, if you’re looking to purchase hardcover copies of his comic books, may the odds be ever in your favor. They’re a pain in the ass to find.

I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to acknowledge and give a heartfelt thank you to Tom Vitale for his written work, “In The Weeds.” Tom, the five-time Emmy award-winning Producer and Director of “No Reservations,” “The Layover,” and “Parts Unknown,” spent 16 years of his life quite literally following Bourdain around the world, working tirelessly to bring his vision to life. Doing so while ironically enough, terrified of flying. A fear that Bourdain would often pounce on - he famously loved turbulence. There was comfort in the chaos.

Tom provides an insightful perspective into the hard-nosed, anomalous, romantic, adventurous, and oftentimes mercurial Anthony Bourdain. From 2002 up until the very end and beyond, sharing his struggles with depression and alcoholism following Tony’s death.

I laughed. I cried. I cannot thank you enough, Tom. Seriously, buy his fucking book.

And while Tom was in the 1% of those who profoundly knew him, we all felt as if we were in that same category. Intrinsically interconnected. In a world full of Kardashians, we had Anthony Bourdain. Our Chef turned writer turned traveling television folk hero. Bravely, and at times foolishly, venturing to parts of the world unfamiliar to the viewer and even himself. Willing to risk it all for the sake of what, food? No, I don’t buy it. Self-discovery? Human connection and understanding? That’s more plausible.

He was transparent at a time when filters and curated experiences reign supreme. We knew about his heroin addiction, the love/hate relationship with alcohol, his infatuation with suicide. Hell, he was so laissez-faire about the matter if you weren’t paying close attention you’d think he was telling a knock-knock joke. He was complex, even to those closest to him. Equal parts cool and nerd. The same man you’d find at Snake and Jake’s Christmas Lounge - a notoriously seedy yet positively wonderful dive bar in New Orleans -ripping shots of Jägermeister (seriously?) with fellow Chefs Steve Stryjewski and Donald Link, was the same man perched awkwardly on a cheap, low-sitting plastic stool in Vietnam, engaged in thoughtful dialogue with President Barack Obama, hunched over a bowl of Bun Cha. He was human. Perfectly imperfect.

It’s been five years since Les Halles closed its doors. Briefly transformed into a memorial for Bourdain once news of his passing became public. Thousands would show up over the days that followed. Love letters. Thank you notes. Poems. Photos. Books. Flowers. Food and drink. Perhaps even a finely-rolled joint or two. Some passed by. Some stood and wept. Others in shock, silent. Anthony Bourdain was gone. Exiting our lives just as quickly and without warning as he entered it. A man so many loved unconditionally despite him giving us every reason not to.

The memorial would eventually fade and the building’s facade would quickly sink back into the concrete jungle from which it came. A not-so-gentle reminder that life truly does move on. But on March 8th, 2022, its doors would open once again. Francis Staub’s French-spirited La Brasserie would unfold at the same location made famous by, you guessed it, Anthony Bourdain. And while I do not reside in New York I can only imagine the scene at 411 Park Avenue South on a day like today. Despondency and anguish are replaced by laughter, shared memories, and good company. Or at least that’s what I hope for. And I’d like to believe that this is what Tony would have wanted for us too. That and Foie Gras with Steak Frites.

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“You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”