Member-only story
St. Anthony’s day
One of several thousand pieces to mourn the loss of the world’s most compassionate chef.
When I was first introduced to Anthony Bourdain, I didn’t like him. I thought he was just another rock star chef, nothing but ego and fancy plating and knife skills. Most of what I knew of him was through chefs I knew or worked with, and they worshipped him. And they were largely wanna-be rock star chefs. Nothing but ego and, every once in awhile, decent knife skills. (Plating, I later learned, was nothing more but a reason to charge an extra ten bucks for a $7 meal.)
Anyway. I’ve never been so delighted to be proven so very, very wrong.
I started watching No Reservations with low expectations. One episode in, and I was hooked. I can’t remember what the first one was — I’ve seen so many so many times. But I was shocked by the levels of compassion, curiosity, and connection I saw in this man. I watched as he sat down at frou-frouiest tables and as he ate street food in narrow alley ways. I watched as he made jokes about weed infused pizzas and as he savored dishes made by tiny toothless grandmothers and served on gigantic, waxy banana leaves. He was fearless and unaffected, always the same sardonic grin and touch of self deprecation, particularly in the presence of food and cooks that were humble, local, and steeped…
