Six years on and it still feels off.
Although I started writing this a few weeks ago, I was conflicted about when to share it — on the anniversary of his death, or that of his birth. The former stays with me, it’s the day that I was stupefied by the news. It’s when it strikes me the most.
But this is about appreciation, not death.
My wife and I stopped at an Izakaya for lunch the other day. We snacked on takoyaki and sipped glasses of ice-cold Asahi. She pointed out that takoyaki was the first street food we’d had together, many years ago, on the streets of Tokyo.
Those soft, doughy, fried balls of chopped octopus, draped in tobiko flakes and drizzled in a mysterious brown sauce and Kewpie mayonnaise. They were our first real taste of the different and new — on the first stop of what has, so far, been the most incredible ride imaginable.
One I likely wouldn’t have taken if it weren’t for Tony.
I’ve never had a mentor, not in the traditional sense. Not in my time as a cook, as a traveller, or as a writer. I’ve never had a close confidant to ask advice of, or to guide me along my path. But I did have a powerful influence, one that I’ll never meet — or ever have the chance to thank.
I clearly remember the moment that I learned of his death.
I was back home in Canada, on a short break en route from Colombia to England. I was staying at my parent’s house. One morning, while walking up the stairs from my temporary room in the basement, I noticed my mom waiting at the top. She had a concerned look on her face. And before I had time to guess what might be wrong, she told me that Anthony Bourdain had killed himself.
I was stunned. Part of me still is.
Without his influence, there’s a good chance I’d have followed another path. It’s unimaginable to guess where my life would be. Though it would likely be far different than it is today.
When I read Kitchen Confidential, his literary magnum opus, it changed me. I read it while working in the kitchen. And I became a better cook because of his words. Not a more creative cook — I didn’t become more expressive or imaginative — but I became better in the kitchen. My attitude shifted, and my mindset on the line was more focused. I was faster, sharper. I developed a new sense of integrity.
When I began my life of travel, it was because of Tony that I had the confidence to take risks in search of reward. To visit the remote villages of Asia, to walk down dark alleys in unfamiliar cities, and to eat the questionable bits of meat grilling over charcoal from carts on the side of the road.
I likely would have never tried that street-side takoyaki had it not been for Tony’s high praise of street food.
And, without that unlocked gate, would likely never have eaten the plethora of deep-fried insects from Thailand and Mexico — or the blood soup in Laos, raw horse heart in Montreal, fermented shark in Iceland, or san-nakji in South Korea.
Even today, as I write these words, I’m grateful for his influence. I love writing. It’s meditative and therapeutic. And sometimes, I’m told, people enjoy my words.
I hated writing growing up. English was one of my worst subjects in school. I despised writing essays, short stories and book reports. Yet, today, I have a hard time throttling back.
Again, it comes back to Tony.
I started writing because I wanted to emulate him. His writing was so captivating that I realized it could actually be fun — that writing about the day-to-day existence of the world is important. That reality is surprisingly entertaining. And that words can be a powerful tool.
And now for the elephant in the room.
Suicide is rarely anticipated.
And while I plan on tackling the issue in a future post, it always seems to hit the hardest when there weren’t any signs.
From the outside, Tony had it all.
He was paid to travel around the world, eat food, and write about it.
To me, that’s the jackpot.
Still, I empathize. Long-term travel — in all its glory — isn’t healthy for the body or the mind. This is especially true if you have family and loved ones back home.
Such freedom weighs heavily.
And it’s impossible to explain to those who haven’t experienced it.
Throw in the element of fame and all the baggage that comes with that, and you have a powder keg waiting for a spark.
We can speculate eternally on what led to his final decision. But ultimately, the choice was his. He fought a war that he believed he couldn’t win. And, despite the pain it would cause those close to him, he removed himself from the battlefield.
Over the last couple of decades, Anthony Bourdain has had a staggering influence on my life.
And six years after his death, his influence continues to reverberate. In my cooking, my travelling, my writing, and in my hunger for what’s next.
I remain eternally grateful for his words, his attitude, and his tenacity.
For better or worse, I am who I am today — at least in part — because of him.