On June 8, 2018, the acclaimed writer and chef Anthony Bourdain killed himself. Like thousands of people around the world, I felt like I had lost a close friend. I’ve never gotten to travel much and as a mediocre cook (and even more middling of a writer), going on adventures with Bourdain on Travel Channel or CNN was a vicarious thrill. He was someone I welcomed into my home and heart. Now, just over a year since he passed, I have a new appreciation of what I hope will be his lasting legacy.

Bourdain’s closest friend, Eric Ripert, requested that instead of marking Bourdain’s death, that we celebrate his life on what would’ve been his birthday, June 25. So, after a long time waiting, and an appropriate time to start as any, I cracked open Bourdain’s sequel to Kitchen Confidential, his 2010 essay collection Medium Raw.

Let me start by saying 2 things. The first is, while saddened by his death, having read this collection, I can no longer say I was shocked. There are moments of outright misery in this book; anger and despair directed inward. He briefly discusses his addictions and what he thinks of them - let me simply say that I probably need to write a post about my own complex relaitonship to those things and the terms we use to talk about addiction. And truthfully, whole episodes of his shows grappled with his depressive periods. There was something profoundly miserable eating away at him. One only hopes that in death he found the peace he needed.

The second is that I didn’t realize how annoyed by his schtick I was. The overly testosteroned, Hunter S. Thompson of the culinary world persona; the aging punk rocker (who was never really punk, just a junkie); the angry man shouting down posers. In light of gamer gate and, you know, everything since 2015, it’s really, really hard to read Bourdain’s work and not feel like - shit, I might even agree with you on the broader point, but don’t you hear how misogynist that is? Or, at other points, he lavishes praise on Mario Batali - he of multiple #MeToo related scandals. That did not age well. And maybe Anthony Bourdain didn’t know about Batali’s problems, but given his level of access and his many writings about that world; I find ignorance to hardly be a reasonable excuse. Much of this book is either railing against the forces of darkness as he sees it or lavishing praise on his friends. And I’m not passing judgement on this - only that, almost 10 years on, those judgements look less acerbic than they do pathetic.

What I am left with; what I choose to remember about Bourdain’s work and legacy, is how despite all of his personal baggage and misery, how miraculous it was that he went far and wide around the world, welcomed by virtually every culture he interacted with, never turning their experience into something exploitive. Bourdain did not travel the world like Bono or Angelina Jolie; Bourdain did not turn their poverty or suffering into our guilt. Instead, he and his crew labored to show the world - and the people who live in it - with the inherent measure of dignity we all possess as human beings.

No where does that ethos of dignity shine brighter than in my Favorite chapter of the book, My Aim is True in which he profiles the fish butcher for the prestigious fish restaurant Le Bernadin (where Ripert is the executive chef and partner). The man, Justo Thomas, is described methodically, lovingly, and held up as a kind of ideal. It is a reputation he’s richly earned.

But the point here is that while Justo works in one of the elite kitchens of the world, his dedication to his craft and what the dignity of the work allows him to be for his family and community are universal. Justo is a living, breathing, American dream, and behind every enchilada or bowl of pho or pad thai you eat, there’s a Justo working their ass off to make that plate. That they make it the way they do matters, and that you learn to see them as fully human matters too.

Bourdain at his best was a spiritual conduit that brought viewers and readers into holy communion with ordinary people around the world. Bourdain at his best brings us in to Buber’s I - Thou relationship.

Bless the hands that made this food, and all it took to get here.

Not that humanity is always pretty

I also read around this time the much hyped first novel from Lillian Li, Number 1 Chinese Restaurant. It was alright. It read like a first novel. Some chapters were really good, like a flashback to what its like to work in a top notch kitchen, while many others choked on stale or overwritten sentances. It reads like MFA writing, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think Ms. Li has a long and really good career ahead of her - there’s absolutely promise in this book and you understand why a publisher wants her services. But this book itself? It’s pretty middling.

I found it too slim for the generational drama it aspired for; too much telling of character instead of revealing through action and inaction.

The most common critique of the book is that the characters are unsympathetic. I think that’s too simplistic. They are complicated and its a complex family dynamic they belong to. But I do agree that at the end of the book, I don’t know who I was supposed to be rooting for, and what I wanted them to get. In the end, everyone got more or less what they wanted; it was as if the consequences of all their actions were… moot.

Maybe that’s the point. In all of our whirling of activity, maybe recognizing people for their inherent dignity is enough. After all, we’re all enmeshed in our own struggles (often of our own making), and it’s a lot more difficult to look back on life’s choices and say with righteous certainty that “X was the right decision.” It’s all so muddled that its easy to forget the really important stuff.

Bless the hands that made this food…