I’ve been thinking a lot about Bourdain.
He’s played in our home everyday since his passing, but that’s not unusual. His shows are my favorite shade of background noise. Rain on a tin roof for a curious mind consumed by the world.
He felt like a friend. One who understood the obsession with elsewhere, and that discomfort makes us better. He said he’s a craftsman, not an artist, but to me he was both. His mediums were words and food and because of him I have a deeper appreciation for both. For brutally honest prose and the poetry of a dish. When we travel abroad we all represent our countries, whether we like it or not, and he showed us all how to be better ambassadors. To leave our egos at home and do as the locals do, to dig deeper than the pages of guide books, and the only way to know a place is to get to know it’s people. He was a great. I wish I could’ve shaken his hand and told him so.
It was his birthday a few days ago, and as we get to know a part of the world we haven’t met yet, he’ll be along for the ride. Like Kerouac, Hemingway, Whitman, and all the other mad journeyman heroes whose words echo; urging us to go further, see deeper, to be more kind and empathetic, to never waste a moment, nor take one too seriously, and to try everyfuckingthing at least once.
We ate here today because he did, and he didn’t steer us wrong. The beef cheeks and brisket were next level. Simple food, solid ingredients, and kind service. A bridge between cultures and language.
Happy Belated Tony. ¡Salud!
