Remembering Anthony Bourdain
I first heard of Anthony Bourdain in 2008. I was 19 and living in Vietnam for a semester abroad. One of my fellow students had a copy of A Cook’s Tour and lent it to me. This was pre-Kindle and I read a ton, so borrowing my classmates’ books was absolutely necessary over the four months I lived there.
It wasn’t love at first read. I’m a vegetarian and Bourdain was a huge snot about vegetarians, especially in his early writings. His opinions sometimes frustrated me, and his obsession with meat was kinda gross to be honest. But the way he described Vietnam was so real, so very accurate to what I was experiencing, and so raw. He saw what I was seeing. I loved Vietnam - despite many issues, living there was one of the most rewarding periods of my life - and his love of Vietnam and passion for the country gave me the opportunity to emotionally bond with him or, rather, his work. Once I was back in the US, I bought his other non-fiction works, and started watching No Reservations.
I was never a major follower. I’d watch episodes of No Reservations if it was somewhere I was interested it. I had his books but didn’t reread them. When Bourdain moved to CNN my reaction was an incredulous “really CNN? Really?”
But Parts Unknown was amazing. It was a travel food show that honestly dealt with politics and its host had matured to deal with the whole world in a way I only wish I could. He changed my mind about places from Houston, TX to Libya through his show. And while I never fully agreed or bought into his thing (again, life-long vegetarian) it was impossible not to respect it.
Anthony Bourdain was fun. I remember one day, years ago, when I was unemployed and had two giant blows, professionally and personally, within 24 hours. Deeply upset, I managed to move to my couch and started watching Parts Unknown. Thirty minutes later I was laughing, and at that reaction I knew I would be ok. And to prove it, then I made spinach-parmesan crepes for dinner. It helped. He helped.
I wanted to have his job, but through my own lens. A female and vegetarian version of what he did. I still do. He struggled and fought to be ok and I do that too. And now a huge part of me thinks “if he couldn’t do that after he'd made it, how in earth can I?”
But, and I have to remind myself of this, that’s not the real take-away here. His death was horrible and tragic, but what he was able to do in the chunk of his life when he was sober, fighting, and inspirational, is what matters. His best should inspire us, even if his suicide makes us question our own capacity to handle the world. Living in the best tradition of what he did is a far better eulogy than falling into the darkest places we know and fear.
