A Man of the 21st Century
He had an impact on me, not just for his writing panache and journalistic intrepidness. But for his character. That braggadocio, diluted just the right amount by sensitivity.
When I first moved to New York, there was little to do for a fresh newcomer in the clammy evenings except crank up the AC in my temporary Harlem high-rise and binge on old episodes of “Parts Unknown” on Netflix. And that became a nightly routine. Granted, it was partly a way to avoid my weird Spanish roommate who accused me of breaking her balcony door handle and stealing her crusty white towel.
These were the early days after a 3,000-mile move when those fleeting but potent pangs of homesickness creeped up unannounced — and I avoided the London episode for a while to keep that uninvited guest away. But there was something remedying then about watching a travel show that explored the deepest crevices of the world and spoke to people with troubles and concerns so far off our radars. That put it all into perspective: my painless move to New York City was comparatively straightforward. “Parts Unknown” became therapeutic.
I’m not usually one to jump on these solemn occasions and disingenuously pretend they had some influence on me, in the trite “X celebrity changed my life” mold. But Anthony Bourdain genuinely inspired me. Despite his protestations, Bourdain was a journalist — and a good one. Journalism, at its best, is about people, and unlike me now, sitting behind a desk with a cup of coffee and a bowl of knock-off-brand Cheerios, he was out there in Senegal eating beef and ground peanut stew and fried thiof, or whitefish. He shared meals with musicians, chefs, authors, scientists and journalists — fellow journalists.
This wasn’t a travel show, actually. This was some of the most impactful reporting work of the modern age. Even with his great presence, Bourdain oozed humility. He seemed more comfortable dining cross-legged on a floor mat with a family in Dakar than at a linen-napkin restaurant. In that Dakar episode, on that floor mat, his Senegalese hosts taught him the word “teranga,” meaning hospitality. “It’s the way you treat a guest. It’s the way you treat each other, the one who is not you. You have to treat him with such respect,” explained Chef Pierre Thiam.
Bourdain epitomized teranga. Yes, he was the guest, but he returned the respect to his hosts. In an outpouring of condolences on Twitter following his death, the world shared sentiments. “He did right by Africans,” said @Africasacountry, linking to a review of his South Africa episode where he focused on post-Apartheid urban black youth. “Did right by Iran, too,” echoed @Ali_Gharib. Bourdain was particularly touched by travels to Iran, where he said he was “treated so well everywhere.”
He won an award in 2014 for his coverage of Palestine, another episode that appeared to move him. “The world has visited many terrible things on the Palestinian people — none more shameful than robbing them of their basic humanity,” he said in acceptance of the accolade. He was flattered by an award received for doing what any basic human should do — offer basic benevolence to your fellow beings. He added that the aim of his program was to “Show regular people doing everyday things. Cooking and enjoying meals. Playing with their children. Talking about their lives, their hopes and dreams.”
Bourdain’s humble response rang true: it wasn’t that ground-breaking of an idea to just listen to one another. But in a divisive world, where this elementary value isn’t instilled in us enough, perhaps it was. He listened, and showed how exceptionally easy it was. His show was at its best when it captured stories about humankind — which is why episodes like the Greek Islands one failed to live up to others. We didn’t tune in to see a middle-aged man on vacation in his swim shorts. “Parts Unknown,” and even “No Reservations,” were not about tourism, or the food. Food was merely a vehicle for presenting humanity to the world.
Except that it was about food, too. It was about the pork noodles and Nashville fried chicken, the oyster omelets and the fermented shark. For Bourdain, food was all about taking risks — and veganism was a cardinal sin. Not eating every inch of an animal was just as much of an insult. So, he readily ate cobra heart and seal eye. It wasn’t a Fear Factor-esque challenge, but experimentation came so naturally to him that, of course, it was fun to watch others tremble in the face of offal. In a CNN segment, he brought forkfuls of tripe to his mouth with no reservations as if it were scrambled eggs, while Anderson Cooper timidly licked the cow stomach lining and called it a day. He teased Cooper that it was better when a blood sausage hot dog “squirts blood.”
In his own vivid words from a career-defining New Yorker piece — he was also a formidable writer — Bourdain explained this primordial lust for food’s darkest elements:
“Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals. It’s about danger — risking the dark, bacterial forces of beef, chicken, cheese, and shellfish. Your first two hundred and seven Wellfleet oysters may transport you to a state of rapture, but your two hundred and eighth may send you to bed with the sweats, chills, and vomits.”
Even for an accomplished chef with French training, there was nothing better than junk food. His (not-so) guilty pleasure was mac and cheese from Popeye’s. In the London episode, which I finally watched, he drowned Brexit sorrows with oily fish and chips — and several hearty pints of Guinness. He marveled at the odd hot-dog-ketchup-spaghetti fusion at Filipino fast-food chain, Jollibee. And one of the most memorable segments of “Parts Unknown” was his late-night grease spree at a Charleston Waffle House: pecan waffles to start, patty melt to follow, pork chops and hot sauce as a palate cleanser — and for dessert, griddled hash browns with ham, onions and American cheese.
His zeal to treasure the most offensive of foodstuffs was unsurprising given his personality. He was forthright and often coarse, and came off as cocksure at times. There was venom in his words when attacking the things and people he loathed — like Trump — and rawness in his language.
He fell in love instantly with Glasgow — and this was his reason: “I was barely off the train and within minutes was called a c**t. Though pretty much the worst thing you could call anyone in America, in Glasgow, it was a casual expression of affection. Glasgow is a tough town. Notorious for its hard drinking, hard living, hard-ass citizenry — and its uniquely merciless sense of humor.”
Callous Glasgow was a perfect fit for Bourdain, who’d done some “hard living” of his own. Even in his reformed life, he was a renegade, “the Elvis of bad-boy chefs,” said the Smithsonian. His own words captured this attitude, and also showed why he had the ultimate job: “I travel the world, eat a lot of shit, and basically do whatever the fuck I want.”
His character was his appeal, and that’s what made him infinitely more watchable than similar culinary travelers like Andrew Zimmern. Bourdain was unafraid to hold his tongue about food fads and habits he despised. “I would like to see the pumpkin spice trend drowned in its own blood,” he said. He referred to vegans as a “Hezbollah-like splinter faction.” He proclaimed that chefs “despise” cooking brunch and save “garbage” cuts for people who like their meat well-done. And he said that “every time Guy Fieri puts barbecue pork inside a nori roll, an angel dies.”
A YouTube commenter stated the chef’s paradoxical nature so precisely, “Only Anthony Bourdain could pretentiously brow-beat the pretentious.” Bourdain was opinionated, but he was a listener. He was brusque, but he was kind. He didn’t give a shit — but he really gave a shit. “Once you’ve been to Cambodia,” he wrote, “you’ll never want to stop wanting to beat Henry Kissinger to death.”
He simply had swagger. Despite his slight figure, he was the biggest — and coolest — man in the room. I saw him for a brief second at the CNN offices just a few weeks ago, and my first thought was that he was a svelte man, and that he must have some incredible metabolism to scarf down half a Waffle House’s inventory and still be in prime shape.
My second thought was that, if I bump into him during my summer at CNN, which I’m likely to do, and I asked him to grab a coffee, I wonder if he’d accept? Of course, I didn’t see him again, but I honestly think he would have. His down-to-earth nature, which never came off as insincere, meant he looked equally at ease taking shots of brandy and singing folk songs with villagers in Tbilisi, Georgia, and discussing the state of the world with President Obama over noodles and cold beer in Hanoi.
Ironically, it seemed that Bourdain was most out of his comfort zone at home — like in the most recent season opener, for which he traveled to West Virginia. He openly confessed his lack of understanding for the state probably most associated with the MAGA mentality. But he dined with hunters, drank with gun lovers and went deep down into the coal mines. “I went right at those things — guns, God and Trump — and I was very moved by what I found there,” the vitriolic critic of Trump admitted afterwards. He said he felt “empathy” and hoped viewers would “imagine walking in somebody else’s shoes.”
He made an effort to understand the other side — all the sides. He prodded and probed in the way that a journalist should. He was unafraid to gently step on toes, buck politically correct trends and, sure, often say things that he’d later regret, he admitted. But he spoke with compassion, and he spoke with conscience.
He once chided “snarkologists” on Twitter for mocking a humble food critic from Grand Forks, North Dakota, for her enthusiastic review of Olive Garden. He praised her good-natured reviews — and gave her a book deal.
He was outspoken in support of the #metoo movement. He recently tweeted: “What’s on the menu for #Weinstein,” attaching a menu from the “Federal Bureau of Prisons.”
He had an impact on me, not just for his writing panache and journalistic intrepidness. But for his character. That braggadocio, diluted just the right amount by sensitivity.
Alan Richman, a GQ critic with whom Bourdain had an ongoing but lighthearted spat, said of his faux nemesis: “I don’t know anybody who is more of a man of the 21st century. The way he acts. The way he speaks. His insanity. His vulgarity.”
That’s someone I’ll aspire to for some time to come. And for now, someone whose life I’ll cheers to, with a pot of Popeye’s mac and cheese.
