“I would literally cut off my arm to have dinner with him.”
“Seriously? That’s intense.”
“Okay maybe not the whole arm, but definitely a finger or two.”
I try not to be parasocial about celebrities, I really do. And for the most part I think I’ve been successful in that effort. However, there is one person in particular I’ve had a difficult time being…normal about. That person is, or I suppose was, the legendary bona fide chef with a morose sense of humour and a permanent wanderlust whose adoring fans called Tony.
On the day of Tony’s untimely death, a writer for GQ magazine said he was the heir to Hunter S. Thompson’s spirit, which pretty much sums up why I’m a fan. He was also coined the “original rockstar” by Smithsonian magazine.
I’d heard his name in passing throughout the years but for some reason he just didn’t catch my attention. Kind of like when I show my mom a song I know she’ll love but I don’t get the timing quite right when I play it for her. Flash forward to a couple years later, I throw the song on and wouldn’t you know, suddenly mom’s got a new favourite song.
In any case, it wasn’t until a few summers ago when I was properly introduced to Tony by my cousin on my dad’s side. A woman about ten years my senior who is one of the only people on that side who I regularly speak to and is, by definition, a kindred spirit.
I flew across the country to spend a little over a week at her swanky yet humble condominium in the heart of Kelowna, British Columbia. My favourite province and the one farthest from where I live. The whole point of the trip was to get to know each other; we had already come to the realization that the darkness and toxicity that plagued our family had not left either of us unscathed, and while we had always gotten along, the age gap and distance meant we’d never had a chance to properly talk about it or share our experiences.
Our time together was eye-opening to say the least. I finally felt like someone on the paternal of my family saw me fully and truly, and actually loved me for it. Not only that, but she wasn’t afraid to hear all the nitty gritty details of the kind of dad her uncle was. In fact, my horror stories paled in comparison to hers, and I was shocked to learn just how much pain and hardship she had endured. I didn’t think it was possible for a person to go through the kind of things she went through and actually make it to the other side.
The respect and admiration I have for my cousin’s strength are insurmountable.
Out of everything we learned about each other, though, the most surprising was that by being raised by siblings, we were essentially the same person in a different font. Our mental health struggles, our preferred crutches, our highs and our lows seemed to mirror each other’s almost perfectly. I can acknowledge that I’ve been awarded an easier ride thus far, but the similarities were staggering. We were absolutely cut from the same stained cloth.
Something about our family – perhaps the perpetually unrecognized, unspoken traumas and their accompanying untreated mental illnesses – seemed to exclusively churn out humans plagued by emotional disturbance. It’s like we were born into a family of generational masochists who didn’t stop to ask whether the next person in line actually wanted their baggage.
By the time we landed on my final day in BC I had listened to the most disturbing and heart-breaking personal anecdote of my life, verified several suspicions I’d had about our family members, and felt wholeheartedly loved and accepted by someone I now saw as a sister.
There we sat, vegging on her couch feeling nostalgic, when I remembered one thing we never touched on: That famous chef she was always enamoured with. The one who, oddly enough, looked very much like he could be related to us. I asked her about him.
“Oh my god, Tony!” And with a few swift clicks on the remote control she had his television show Parts Unknown playing on the screen.
“You’ll love this. You’ll love him.”
It’s fair to say no one has ever been more correct about anything.
I was immediately captivated. And it’s not like I was a stranger to cooking shows; my mom and I watched countless seasons of Master Chef growing up and my ex and I would spend full days watching Kitchen Nightmares, but this, this was something else entirely. This guy had grit, and he was funny. He was a total badass with a refreshing capacity for empathy and I was entirely hooked on his vibe.
My long held perception of the culinary world – that it was far too elite and posh for a commoner like myself, or that all respectable chefs were fuming egomaniacs – was quickly dissolved. I saw instead that the culinary world was more like a communal space for the socially outcasted and eclectic, a sort of safe haven for unadulterated self-expression. The world of food suddenly appeared less like a high-society VIP club and more like a no-holds-barred locker room with passion, pain, pleasure and the beating heart of gastronomy at its core.
I marvelled at the man on the screen. A man who, somehow, had the very same eyes as my grandfather, my father, and myself. I could not believe, and cannot emphasize enough, how strange it was to discover that my one true hero looked precisely like he could have walked me down the aisle at my wedding. A part of me has always wondered if the paternal wound I carry has amplified my infatuation with him, and if he didn’t look like family, would I feel the same?
Regardless, there I sat, giggling at Tony’s shockingly dark quips, and falling just as quickly into sentimentality when his celebrated tenderness came through. I had never seen a chef so willingly trade their notorious pompousness for pure authenticity and humility. It seemed like the Tony in real life, the Tony who preferred a home-cooked meal to a Michelin-star dish, was the exact same man who showed up in front of the camera. There was no act, no script, no ulterior motives or manipulation, just a pure love of the game and the drive to see it through.
We spent the rest of the day glued to the TV, any other plans thrown swiftly out the window, while my cousin filled me in on the public details of Tony’s personal life and her relationship with his work. I knew he was no longer with us before we dove into the show, but the more we watched and the more I learned, the more I was overcome with grief and regret that I hadn’t done this sooner.
Better late than never, I suppose.
With a new muse and a fresh perspective in my back pocket I made my way back to the East Coast. I tossed my luggage inside and immediately drove to Value Village in hopes of finding a used copy of Kitchen Confidential. I figured the chances of finding it were slim considering Anthony Bourdain was, and still is, something of a cult sensation. The book had been out for decades at that point too and it just seemed like the kind of thing you’d hold onto if you were inspired to purchase it in the first place.
However, as though universe was been hell-bent on solidifying my belief in the unknown that day, there it sat, facing me in the biography section of the used book aisle with a $4.99 sticker slapped on the spine:
It’s funny, I still haven’t finished Freaks and Geeks. I think I have one episode left. The reason is that I loved it so much when I watched it in high school that I figured if I didn’t finish it, then it would never be over. And the same goes for Kitchen Confidential. I still have a couple chapters left, but I’ve read the majority of it and have listened to most of the Audiobook, which is narrated by the man himself. I just don’t want my time with him to be over. I don’t want to consume every last thing he gave us, especially since the material is finite and there will never be more.
In the years since that trip to Kelowna I have drip-fed myself Tony’s work and have come to better understand the intricacies of his legacy. Anthony Bourdain was by no means a figure of altruism, and his life should not be viewed as a shining example to mirror. In fact – and I think he would agree – you’d be wiser to take the opposite lesson from his example.
Truthfully, I think the best approach to navigating the nuances of how celebrity and humanness coincide, is to remove the urge to pick apart a person in order to categorize them as either good or bad.
It should go without saying that I am not talking about actual monsters here.
But I think our tendency to fall into parasocialism comes from struggling to see a person we admire – or condemn – as flawed and exemplary at the same time, so we try to convince ourselves it’s possible for a fully formed person to be solely one way or another. There is a subconscious optimism that tells us this person is not truly a stranger, because if they were, it would be embarrassing to care so much about them. We must know this person to some degree, it would be too embarrassing to invest so much emotion, so much time, so much thought, and even money on a total stranger. But we all do it, and hardly any of us will ever know if the people we look up to are admirable in real life or not.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is I’m well aware that a lot of people view Tony as a selfish, callous addict who left his only daughter by impulsively committing suicide, and that I think those people are right. But I’m also saying I’m aware of the other camp. The one that celebrates his fiery spirit, his sharp wit, his love for people and the world, and of course, his passion for sharing great food. I’m trying to say I think those people are right, too.
Because good and evil are not mutually exclusive, and something as complicated and dynamic as a person certainly doesn’t change that. I love Anthony Bourdain, but I did not know him, and I would never try to convince someone he was one way or another because I just don’t know.
He was simply a person. A broken, prolific, adored person.
So here’s to you, Anthony Michael Bourdain:
The anti-establishment, anti-corporation, anti-Trump, pro-immigration man who was a champion of the working class and the LGBTQ+ community. A man who broke bread with Palestinians in the West Bank amid political tensions with Israel, who shared dinner with the founder of the Black Panther Party and vehemently supported Black Lives Matter.
Thank you for sharing your heart, your soul, and your candid self with us. Thank you for taking us to corners of the globe we never would have seen otherwise. Thank you for treating every person you encountered on your travels with dignity and respect. Thank you for being honest about the politics of the places you visited even when it directly opposed the American perception. Thank you for being openly critical of capitalist greed, of racism, of homophobia, of sexism and any other prejudiced “ism.”
Thank you for writing; for documenting your life, your experiences, your emotions and your recipes. Most of all, thank you for letting us read them.
Thank you for instilling hope and wonder for the world in so many people. Thank you for showing us why sitting around a crowded table to share a meal is so much better than sitting idly in front of a TV screen alone.
Thank you for holding on for as long as you did.
You’d be happy to know you were a vital proponent to my shift from vegan to pescatarian-ish. I wish I could tell you I’ll consume land animals again one day, but I doubt that’s actually true. I remember reading that vegetarians were a personal affront to all you deemed good and holy in the world, which admittedly made me laugh, but I wish so badly I could talk to you about that. I love a good debate.
And no, I wouldn’t actually willingly lose a limb just to have dinner with you. But if that were a real possibility, it would be a difficult decision, I can’t lie.
By the way, it’s wild to me that Ralph Steadman illustrated the cover of your cookbook – he’s my favourite living artist. I love so much that the artists I love seem to really admire each other, too. Maybe we’re all a bit closer to being kindred spirits than I thought.
I wonder how you would feel about the Matt Johnson film they’re making about you and the actor they chose. I wish I’d written it first.
Anyway, I hope whatever you found on the other side is more peaceful than the world you left behind. I hope there was a mountain of fresh French oysters waiting for you.
Thank you for everything.
I’m not going anywhere. I hope. It’s been an adventure. We took some casualties over the years. Things got broken. Things got lost.
– Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential
But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
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