It’s hard to put into words the impact Anthony Bourdain has had. Not only on me but on the world. It’s a peculiar, profound impact. A real deep appreciation of the man, the kind of love and adoration that from the outside looking in might appear unusual considering the fact that most of us have never spoken to, let alone met the guy. But therein lies what made him so special. He was more like a long lost friend than a celebrity or star—Those evil words. Hell, sometimes I even wonder whether I would’ve made the move to Vietnam had it not been for the many episodes he made about the country, the passion and fascination with which he spoke about it, going so far as saying it was one of his favourite places he’d been to. But let’s back up. There’s so much to say and I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to when it all began.
I started watching Bourdain in high school. Finding him made as much of an immediate impression on me as did the day my dad first played Misty Mountain Hop by Led Zeppelin on the drive to school, or when I picked up Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas after an especially long reading slump. That thunderbolt feeling. That worry and excitement at the realisation that your life has taken a turn. You’re a different person from that point on—You’ve died and been reborn, once more into yourself. I was hooked from the get-go, devouring every show, clip, and interview I could find, quickly learning that he was a writer, too, that writing had been his ticket to all the success that followed. Reading his breakthrough essay for the New Yorker, Don’t Eat Before Reading This, I found out how damn good of a writer he was. He had a voice, had something to say and never sugarcoated any of it. But back to the shows. They were everything. A Cook's Tour, No Reservations, Parts Unknown, these were where Bourdain really shone, where you got the raw, unfiltered, meandering Bourdain who was as much a travel food show host as he was a critic, conversationalist, conservationist, husband, father, journalist, poet, philosopher—In short, a real, complex person. It’s no wonder why everyone I’ve met who’s been a fan of the man has expressed an undeniable sense of knowing him. He always came across as someone you might meet in a bar, strike up a conversation over a few beers before parting with an easy handshake, never to meet again. I harboured this type of dream in high school, imagining what I’d say if I one day happened to run into him, the questions I’d have, the things I wouldn’t say. Then on a family holiday in 2018, eight days before my birthday, he killed himself.
They say never meet your heroes. Might save you from possible disappointment. While I understand the sentiment, I’m not sure I agree. Why not meet your heroes? They’re your heroes, after all. Meet them and say hello, say thanks, say whatever you want, tell them they’re no longer your hero if they turn out to be assholes, if they disappoint you—At least you got to meet them. When Bourdain died, that dream died with him. I didn’t realise how much I’d actually cared about the guy until he was gone, and for the remainder of that holiday it was hard to wrap my head around his death. How could he be dead? He’d been everywhere. From the vast plains of the Moroccan desert as the red sun set, all the way to the daze of another neon night in Tokyo, happily lost in the mad city. Once I started asking these questions, they had a tendency of forming a life of their own. You can’t help but wonder at all the who, what, when, where, and whys that lead a person to make a choice that takes them from vibrantly alive to a zero in nothing more than a moment. With Bourdain, those questions were more polarising. It was a shock, really, seeing as to a lot of people he’d had the best job—the best life—in the world. But of course you’re only projecting. That’s the issue with fame: you never know what’s going on behind the camera. As the viewer you start making up stories about the individual, creating an identity of who you want them to be and at some point you’re unable to accept anything less than the monster you’ve created. With Bourdain, he was a rebel. A cool, shy-at-times personality who always knew the right thing to say, could always cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter. He was a phoenix, rising from the ashes of heroin addiction and slumming in New York City kitchens to travelling the world and buddying up with artists, musicians, Michelin starred chefs… But even then, who was he really? I’d never know. It wasn’t my business to know, and, ultimately, grasping the complexity of another individual is an impossible, futile task. A person is a person. At their core just like you and simultaneously so vastly different that only the distance between the stars can provide some measure of their uniqueness.
A year after his death, I left Japan to study creative writing in England. As much as I looked forward to being away from home, you’re never as prepared for it as you think. Homesickness took hold after a while. So on nights I wasn’t out partying, out trying to forget the homesickness with new friends who spoke in new accents, I stayed in my room, had some dinner, maybe a drink, and rewatched episodes of his shows. There was no greater escape. Away from the bitter English winds sweeping out the window, away from a loneliness I could go and be free with Bourdain, transported to a fishing village in France where he told me about the magic of his first oyster. Anywhere. To Chengdu, where beer flowed and lips burned from the heat of the Szechuan peppercorn, to the Congo, on a journey into the heart of darkness and who knew when we’d be coming back. Everywhere. Perhaps that’s what it’d been all along. A form of escape and Bourdain served as the guiding light. The wizard showing us the path away from home, away from mundanity and comfort into a wonder that comes from ditching the tour guide, the fancy hotel and going someplace you’ve never been, drawn forth by nothing more than blind faith and the unexplainable desire to see what else is out there. If there was any legacy I believed he wanted to leave behind, that was it. The willingness to see the world outside of what you called home. Or, as he put it: To move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else's shoes or at least eat their food, it's a plus for everybody.
Several years have passed since his suicide. Countless things have been said, statements made, and Roadrunner, a documentary about him, has been released. Though I don’t watch his shows as much as I used to, that's not out of a loss of love. You just grow out of things, find new interests to pass the time. No matter what, I’m in Vietnam now, Vietnam, and some days I’ll be driving my bike and I still can’t help but glance at all the many alleyways flitting by and imagine what wonders they might lead to. In those fleeting moments, I’m reminded of him. How he was once here, hey, how he might’ve even gone down one of them alleyways in search of his next bowl of noodles, in search of a lady selling an ice-cold drink or a cafe where he could laze away an afternoon while the coffee drip-drip-dripped with the hours. Away from the noise. On his own. Eventually he’d emerge with some story to tell, some wisecrack he’d make with a self-effacing grin. For that moment alone, if for nothing else, I’m grateful. Even if I never got to meet him and say hello, at least I got to walk across foreign lands in his shoes, see the world through his eyes. That should be enough. But still, every now and again it bugs me. How more than hello I never got to tell him thanks. I suppose it’s fitting then that the only way I’ll be able to do that now is in writing, that medium he loved and that which I continue to love as well. Without writing, after all, the world would never have known Anthony Bourdain, so I suppose there really is no better way to repay my gratitude. I guess that’s all then. Nothing left to say but a thank you, Mr. Bourdain. Thanks for it all.
Cover photo courtesy of Wallpaper Access.
