Like a lot of people, I admired Anthony Bourdain. I own his two cookbooks, which are very good and get thumbed through more regularly than others, with a few things memorized into my cooking routines. In my bookshelf is a book of his essays, Medium Raw. Like many, I was introduced to him with his article in The New Yorker (I’ve been a subscriber since college), the one that led to his book, Kitchen Confidential. I read that, too, some years later, the paperback tucked somewhere in the house. I watched his shows on Travel Channel and CNN, but not religiously. I definitely was not a fan on the level of some of my “foodie” friends that would purchase a ticket for whatever event Bourdain held when his celebrity took off and he would tour the country. I have no tale of a random run-in, no “selfie” taken with him at a book signing—I just don’t think (and don’t care) to do those opportunistic things when they present themselves, anyway.
But we did exchange emails. Not many. I didn’t save them, because I didn’t think to do so (still wouldn’t). It was probably 13 years ago—he was at least two years into his “No Reservations” era. A celebrity chef, to be sure, but not ubiquitous. Further dispelling the idea I should be remotely obsequious was that I knew plenty of chefs at that time who were pitching shows to cable outlets with hours upon hours to fill, or hiring producers to film pilots. Chefs I knew appeared on show as competitors or guests. It was a time when for-profit culinary schools were preying (successfully) on anyone who watched Top Chef, Iron Chef America or Food Network’s chef show du jour, leaving them with a pile of debt to pay off with what for most would be a $12 to $13 per hour job after graduation. (One of high-priced “schools” I visited for a story had Food Network blaring from flatscreens in the lobby, where susceptible students waited.) Culinary students and young chefs (males, in particular) fingered the pages of Kitchen Confidential as if it contained holy verse, and did their best to emulate a lifestyle they thought was an exclusive part of the career choice.
I, too, liked Kitchen Confidential. It was less the story than the energy of Bourdain’s writing that captured me, however, and the proof that a curious mind with depth of thought simmered beneath the telling of that particular tale. Sure, the tales of debauchery and hyperbolic rages were entertaining, but I didn’t find it exclusive to the professional kitchen or restaurants in general, and thus found no perverse glamour in it—based on my own experience. Take journalism, among my early careers. Newsrooms “back in the day” employed characters that drank all the booze, consumed all the drugs, banged their coworkers and their spouses (and, like many of these types of work environments, ignorantly created a climate that likely put some of our women co-workers at unease)—yet we still got to the city council meeting and pounded out the required 1,000 to 1,500 words, backed by at least three sources and background for clarity, on the controversy of the moment. Or landscape construction—hard, seasonal work in which I also engaged. Or, basically, any profession or job that imposes extreme hours (be they long or second- or third-shift, I’ve done both as a janitor) upon what could be deemed “normal.” It takes a unique character indeed to do early morning delivery, day after day, year after year (I know, I hired them, when I ran a wholesale bakery). And, this is true: if one suffers from mental illness, those extremes extract a much heavier toll.
All that typed, food—and therefore restaurants, bakeries and other connected businesses—are unique in that they distribute a shared experience. Cooking and baking are skill sets that, when done just proficiently and reliably, can supply regular employment for people who might not have earned post-graduate degrees, and to those who might not have mastered the language of the country in which they reside. Restaurants have given generations of immigrants the power to build wealth and happiness for their families. These are among the important themes Bourdain touched upon throughout his career as a writer and traveling commentator—themes I gathered he thought were more important than his and his coworkers’ behavior during his early years as a cook and chef. At his best with pen or television, the chaos of Bourdain’s own “becoming” in Kitchen Confidential seemed distant.
At the time of our typing exchange I was the managing editor for a food industry publication. It focussed largely on independent restaurant business, but also looked at the greater industry and food trends. My audience was the restaurant and food professionals—chefs, bakers, managers, owners, brokers and dealers. What I found interesting amid the Gonzo-esque writing was Bourdain’s chops as a kitchen manager—managing people, food costs and waste of all kinds. Sprinkle that with his global observations showcased with mellow anarchy on No Reservations and I thought he would make an excellent keynote speaker. His nascent celebrity would also bring our annual business event, which I took over completely that year, some added oomph amid the top restaurateurs and chefs who were opening innovative concepts.
My magazine’s parent company had a connection to his agent/handler through the company’s large, national restaurant finance event, held annually in Las Vegas. Thinking I would have little chance, I emailed that agent, and pleaded, something along the lines of, “Hey, would Mr. Bourdain consider speaking at an event in Minneapolis that would not have a consumer audience. Instead, he would be standing in front of industry professionals interested in his experience as a chef and efficient kitchen manager—among other things, of course. By the way, I only have $7,500. In addition, we’d cover airfare, lodging and a decadent (or not) meal or two, of course.”
I did not expect a response. His minimum fee at that time was not ridiculous, but three times my budget, if I recall correctly. (Compared to some Food Network chefs asking five and six figures, he was dirt cheap.) But, I got a response, from Bourdain himself, via email. His agent/handler had forwarded my email to him. “What is this?” He wrote, or something along those lines.
I explained, adding that it wouldn’t be a huge audience, just about 150 to 200-ish professionals who attend our annual Restaurant Business Summit to discuss issues of the day, including legislation, food trends, labor issues, building sales, yada yada. No fawning chef worshipers asking for Sharpie autographs on their nether regions.
“I’m interested,” he typed, or something like that, adding they were nailing down some travel schedules for the show and would let me know officially in the coming days.
Of course, it didn’t happen, and he apologized, even though he was not breaking a commitment. “It would be nice to be in front of that audience, those working their businesses,” he typed, or something very similar.
And that was that. I didn’t keep the emails, because it didn’t occur to me to do so. It still wouldn’t. They were emails, and unspectacular transactional ones at that. (But, in this electronic age, maybe we need to at least reconsider the email as the last resemblance of the hand-written letter.)
Since that time, as we know, Bourdain’s stature grew significantly, particularly when he jumped to CNN and began Parts Unknown (enough to share a beer and meal with President Obama). I didn’t watch regularly, but enough to notice the more structured narrative and often stunning cinematography. I also watched often enough to see where Bourdain would leave me a bit deflated.
Allow me to explain: he might have an interview subject cornered in a hypocrisy, or his narrative might be winding toward what could be a profound statement on the realities afoot in whatever country he visited that was enduring a revolution or upheaval of some kind, but instead of asking that one extra question, or pressing forward to what could be a hard conclusion (which, if you’re human, is a hard step even if one is a trained journalist), he would leave it hanging, he and his guest still enjoying more food, or the cinematography and his voice-over spinning off into wistful inconclusive territory (but still beautiful) that would leave me looking at the screen, exasperated as if watching a botched field-goal attempt from 20 yards to win the playoff game.
There is an explanation why he didn’t make a controversial pronouncement when one might have been warranted: he cared about the people who showed him their homeland, even if that homeland was a brutal dictatorship, or surveillance society, or both. “I can go back home and say whatever I want about my experiences in China, for example,” Bourdain said in one of the interviews transcribed in Anthony Bourdain: The Last Interview. “But the people who trusted us, hung out with us, helped us while we were there—they remain. There can be consequences to what I end up saying on TV. Not for me. For the people who were with us while in country. I try, as best I can, to be sensitive to that. I’m not looking to put anybody in the soup. Even if they were spying on me. They are, after all, just doing their job.”
That’s not to say he avoided controversy—particularly when the lens pointed to the United States, which earned him backlash from fans who thought he should “‘Stick with food, man. We don’t want your political opinion,’” Bourdain said to CBS’s Peter Armstrong. “Okay, fair enough, but it’s difficult to not notice the elephant in the room. … ‘How come you’re missing two of your limbs in Laos?’ ‘Well, you know, when I was a little boy, I was walking around in a field and stepped on one of the eight million tons of ordnance you guys left in my country.’ Look, those are inescapable facts. How you choose to feel about them or interpret them, is up to you.”
The interviews span from 2003 to 2018. The last, which was published days before Bourdain died, is less an interview than a story by Eric Kohn from Indiewire. It isn’t the strongest, and being claimed as “the last,” it’s a limp flag to be staked on the hill. Among the others, there isn’t a great one, but enough of Bourdain’s spirit is present to make one read on. What’s clear to anyone who paid a little attention to his career, is Bourdain was an evolving human being (high compliment these days), constantly looking within and challenging himself even at age 60. The Daily Show’s Trevor Noah, in January of 2018, asked him about the #MeToo movement in the world of restaurants. “I think like a lot of men, I’m reexamining my life,” Bourdain said. “I wrote sort of the meathead Bible for uh, restaurant employees and chefs. And, you know, I look back like, I hope, a lot of men in that industry, and say, not so much what did I do or not do, but what did I see, and what did I let slide…what did I not notice? I think that’s something people are really going to have to take into account now.”
Still, this slim anthology doesn’t do him justice, and seems more an opportunistic exercise—a grab-bag of available interviews, rather than thoughtful accumulation. Which is a shame. On social media, Bourdain’s slashing wit took on President Trump and his minions, particularly after Trump labeled several African nations “shithole countries.” It would have been fantastic to see Bourdain take up a pen again. And maybe he was doing that.
What we can hope for is that the next book on, or “of” Bourdain, is something that represents what he became: much more than a chef who wrote the the “meathead Bible” for those in the restaurant world, and something that likely inspired behavior that he abhorred, and probably—although he would graciously endure—grew tired of talking about. He was a prolific writer—of fiction, too—there must be stacks of journals around.
And if not, his published work, on the page and on screen, is a stellar biography. If there was a common thread to his work across the globe, it’s that we shouldn’t fear one another. Let his work stand, available to all. That, it can be agreed, is what he—or anyone—would want.
Anthony Bourdain: The Last Interview and Other Conversations
Melville House Publishing, 2019
Featured image courtesy of cnn.com
