Thoughts on Anthony Bourdain

I was surprised by the strong sense of numbness I felt when I heard that Anthony Bourdain had committed suicide. It didn’t feel real — but in a deeper sense — it was that for me, my personal interactions with Mr. Bourdain — it wasn’t actually real.

For me, Anthony Bourdain was an idea. An impetus to travel, to respect and learn the cultures of other people. A yearning for an even better meal, in an even more obscure place, with even further far flung languages, spices, and aromas. He was an invitation to speak plainly about the glaring inequalities and tragedies that existed in the world — but to not stop there, in the horror and the sadness — but to push on into a celebration of what was unique and exceptional about that place despite the hardship. It was to look at children of other colors, shapes, and countries — and see they weren’t different from our own. He encouraged, forced, and cajoled his audience (me) into trying to see a part of the world we didn’t know, or didn’t want to see — and to try, just to try to understand and empathize.

He was also a symbol of redemption. A former heroin addict, drifter, law-breaker, and failed chef — he was a symbol of rebirth, reinvention, and the value of trying again tomorrow. He gave me hope — that we don’t have to be defined by our worst moments and our worst failures. In fact, we won’t be — but only if we persevere, get a little lucky, but most importantly — we take those failures and craft them into the next chapter.

I will never forget the episode of his show where they traveled to Iran. Iran — a vilified enemy of the United States, potential nuclear power, supporter of suicide bombers, filled with hateful people and venomous rhetoric towards the United States — an enemy state. But Anthony Bourdain came to talk to us about the food. The shockingly beautiful food of Iran — with the pale gold turmeric rice, and cilantro green fresh chutneys. Purple raisins and tan cashews dotting a roasted chicken dish — served with steam still rising from the plates, and smiling mouths and faces waiting to eat.

I think this was his secret, his value, his understanding. The politics, the crime, the fighting, the propaganda — but hey — we all gotta eat right?