Anthony Bourdain is one of my favorites. Being a big “Parts Unknown” girl, I’d google “Cityname + Anthony Bourdain” while traveling to see if he had been there.
To see if he had any suggestions, if I could go to the same restaurant and order the same dish.
Taste what he tasted. Try what he tried. Walk where he walked.
Somehow, when he killed himself, he seemed even more tragic-cool-relatable. He was sad like I was sad. He liked food like I like food. He was a rockstar of the culinary world.
Anthony Bourdain was my Kurt Cobain.
After starting this blog, (Female Hysteria) named to psychologically flood and bull bait myself into the acceptance of my own ‘too much’ ness, someone sent me a copy of Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential” with a note saying that my writing was reminiscent of his (Anthony’s).
What an honor, what a compliment, what a…wait, should we be concerned?
Gritty, obscene and culturally acclaimed, “Kitchen Confidential” is a great book. That sounds like a critic’s review, and maybe it is, because I’m a critic and that is my review. Go on amazon, order a copy.
But really, it’s this new book that’s got me going. Without even picking it up, it’s got me thinking. “Down and Out in Paradise”, an unauthorized biography.
It feels like a voracious invasion of privacy - somewhere Anthony is rolling in his grave while we read that he googled his girlfriend Asia Argento 300 times before he died…along with a few prostitution sites.
I DID refer to him as a rockstar for a reason.
He was sex, drugs and haute cuisine.
This is Acid, Fat and Heat.
This is…. Hold up, he googled her 300 times?
That brings me back to the bitter and the sweet.
Along with his search history, they released his texts to Asia.
“I am okay. I am not spiteful. I am not jealous that you have been with another man. I do not own you. You are free. As I said. As I promised. As I truly meant, but you were careless. You were reckless with my heart. My life.”
A poet both in the kitchen and out.
Asia had begun frequenting one of their favorite hotels with another man. A French journalist.
That’s what stung the most.
The hotel… not that he was French. Or a journalist. Though I’m sure that didn’t help.
Asia: I can’t take this
Anthony: Is there anything I can do?
Asia: Stop busting my balls
Anthony: Ok.
and then he did.
He stopped.
When I started writing this, (then subsequently stopped, and started again, and then stopped again), it was called “A good girl’s guide to forgiving” and had nothing to do with Anthony Bourdain. Actually, it had a lot to do with Ray Bradbury and a little to do with Ashton Kutcher, but mostly it was about me, like I inevitably make everything.
Me, me, me, a whole world of me.
Before, there was always this urge to take a break from being me – I hated being me, was embarrassed to be me. That isn’t true anymore. If you personify yourself as someone else you can start to appreciate the quirks of your own human experience.
Her, her, her, a whole world of her.
Pause. She needs me.
So, she had this idea for a guide, but how do I write a guide for something she’s lost the ability to do? If I was a good girl maybe I’d be able to forgive one more time. Maybe I’d write a text saying I’m not spiteful, or jealous.
Maybe even manage to mean it.
Fat chance but i’m begging for the benefit of the doubt here.
Or maybe you’d find me googling someone 300 times and wondering if anyone has ever googled me 300 times.
It seems a bit much, doesn’t it? What was he even looking at?
It’s not like the results changed.
Wait, stop.
Let me try and see if it helps.
The good girl’s guide to forgiving was going to be cheeky, and fun. Sassy and bitchy, inevitably ending with “don’t”. The whole piece would culminate in me saying that I’m not a good girl, so my guide to forgiving was not to at all.
But the first part is a lie and usually the second part is, too.
Forgiveness feels like a running bath, and fields of flowers and dark hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. This is not the Sound of Music, but those are a few of my favorite things. It feels like sharing passwords, sending gifts, Frenchman Street and fried saltines.
Or…I think it will.
I wish I wrote a piece that said not to forgive, but instead I’m trying to figure out how to. Anthony wasn’t okay. Was everything else a lie, too?
Was he spiteful and jealous like I am spiteful and jealous?
Did I walk where he walked, when I tasted what he tasted and tried what he tried?
Without further ado, from my kitchen to yours.
Anthony Bourdain’s last texts and The Good Girl’s Guide to Forgiving.
Step 1. Let go of spite. Let go of jealousy.
Step 2. You do not own anyone, they are free. Despite being reckless, despite being careless.
Step 3. You are here for a good time, not a long time.
Step 4. Hope “fake it till you make it” is a real thing.
Step 5. Stop busting my balls.
Step 6. Ok.
Enhance your reading experience with today’s Blog pairing menu:
Lil’ Snack: Fried Saltines and first oysters
Catchy tune: I Caught Myself - Paramore