The F Word. An online column for Frank De Blase to pontificate, ruminate, placate, and salivate. We'll have reviews and previews, we'll discuss trends in local and national music scenes, and we'll try to do it as reverently as possible. Yup. Let's get started.
Anthony Bourdain, the rock star of the culinary world, lived to rile up the curiosity and wanderlust lurking in us all. His opinions were disseminated through loquacious diatribes and sharp-tongued lamentations. Priceless. Beyond his work as a chef, his art was taking others’ art and framing it in an easily understood and simple context. And he was clearly one of the cool breed that roams the earth.
Bourdain was found dead in his hotel room this morning in France from an apparent suicide. He was 61.
From surviving on the streets of NYC selling paperbacks to feed a drug habit to becoming an Emmy Award-winning TV host and author, Bourdain’s was a Cinderella story. He dined with President Obama and members of The Ramones. And he cut through the bullshit. He did not suffer fools, he did not self-censor.
As a kind of food ambassador and dinner diplomat, Bourdain taught us that the secret to a person’s lifestyle and culture was in found, in large part, in what they ate and how they ate it. The world is a cooler place for having Bourdain in it for a while.
Bourdain is quoted saying:
“I should’ve died in my 20s. I became successful in my 40s. I became a dad in my 50s. I feel like I’ve stolen a car — a really nice car — and I keep looking in the rearview mirror for flashing lights. But there’s been nothing yet.”