Book Review: “Kitchen Confidential” — Anthony Bourdain
Reading this, almost exactly 20 years after it was written; a few years after Bourdain’s saddening suicide; experiencing the irony of being disappointed that its over, that I finished it, that I didn’t want it to end. At least I can still go back and watch his shows.
The underbelly, the side most people don’t see and are glad they never have; truly glorifying to read. Food has a way of being romantic. It is romance. I think Bourdain had a better knowledge, appreciation, and utilization of this fact than anyone. Food is all encompassing. It bridges borders, spans decades, connects generations, and language barriers. it has the power to make you laugh, cry, flood your brain and heart with memories of past places, meals, and relationships; make you projectile vomit, shit your pants, poison you to death — and has the ability to take any form of presentation. Simplistic to the core like a home cooked meal you grew up on or as detailed and painstakingly put together as origami sushi— c’est ce que c’est. It, for me, represents love and affection in the most artistic yet wholesome way possible. To know where your food comes from, how its prepared, and who prepares it, is an important and powerful thing; and a luxury.
God does this book make me want to cook. Not for anyone else nor in a restaurant, but for myself. I don’t necessarily love the idea of serving people, but I could go for entertaining or hosting maybe (as in my friends or family). I want to Cook badly, even if I know I cant (at least not like a proper chef), meaning that I want to learn the techniques, hone the skills, and put some “English” on it when im doing it. I want the knife. The Global knife. I want to travel the world and see things from the viewpoint of the locals. I want to get my hands in the metaphorical and not so metaphorical goo. I want to move (continually) and maybe lose the home I thought I was forming here in Milwaukee. Maybe I don’t want to say I have a county. I guess this whole mindset is just me romanticizing about having another life, about being able to escape the life I have now and become a truer version of myself — one without previous expectations. The tattoos, the hair, the not giving a fuck. The earring, the notoriety, the being able to walk into a random place and always know someone there will have your back; someone, somewhere who you can share a drink and a laugh with. That is what I want most.
I can’t say I’m fully there (immersed) but maybe I experience some of the shadowy depths a chef does as a landscaper. We say and pretty much do what we want while on the job. We can produce great things, but ultimately it’s not for you or your property. It’s for us. Because we know we can make something beautiful, right before our own eyes, and with our own hands. It gets old fast, but you give a grunt, maybe smoke a dart and get back to it because it doesn’t really ever stop.
As unfortunate as his death and suicide may have been, Anthony bourdain still lives on among my heart and at the base of the sword I carry. A legend — in the culinary field, in travel, and in being human. He sure had his share of “faults,” but when it came down to being a real human, set on expressing himself in the most sincere, albeit sometimes blunt manner, he excelled in that. He excelled in not giving a shit; and thats the part of him I admire most. I regrettably didn’t get into him until around the time of this death. Just having starting to appreciate what he did for food, travel, and the lost soul. Slowly becoming more infatuated by his mystique, only to have been choked up by his tragic end. I had hopes of running his show on loop in my future classroom on an old box T.V. I now have hopes to be like Bourdain in my pursuits of a career, in writing, and in traveling, but not as a mere replication of what I think of him to be. I hope to emulate him by being the truest, most badass version of myself that I can be.
So what about the book and his writing.
Bourdain mentions how he doesn’t think writing or writers deserve to get paid or acknowledged for their writing since the end outcome is only a watered down version of the real story. There is no edgy detail, or at least it isn’t edgy enough, not grungy enough, and there isn’t enough grit in the teeth or under the nails to really make you feel what he felt. Details of the real memory are lost not only in the head of the writer as he attempts to put them to paper, but lost as the reader struggles for clarity attempting to get the words back off the paper and into their own head. Although I agree partially, reading Bourdain’s words as opposed to hearing and seeing them on a screen gave me a chance to form my own picture of him, who he was, and what he stood for — one that is uniquely mine as he is uniquely himself. And Im proud of that. I am happy that I have that one little thing to myself, however insignificant it may seem. I am happy I got to feel like I knew him a little even though I didn’t.
His writing inspires but also kills. The beauty through which he tells his story motivates people to conquer their dreams, but the reality of his hard hitting and sometimes painful life also benumbs people into immobility. Thats real. Thats truth. Among others, Bourdain inspires me. He makes me feel not so entirely lost. Repose en paix.
