A kitchen is only defined by the people who breathe life into it.
Without them, only a shell of stainless steel remains.
On the morning of June 8th, at precisely 7:10am MST my first alarm went off.
As is usual, I was not ready to start the day, and I reached over to push the snooze button.
I saw on the lock screen a news bulletin, one that shook me and my industry to the core:
Anthony Bourdain had decided to end his life.
Now, weeks later, after countless media coverage, I want to share my feelings on this loss.
Years ago, long before I tripped into this career, I fell in love with his shows. I can still remember watching No Reservations in the tiny apartment a girlfriend of mine shared with college roommates. While she was off in class, I was getting lost in his travels, the food, and the people. His words, his demeanor, the way he embraced the corners and back alleys of the world captivated me. Even back then I lauded his approach on the industry, that behind the fancy cutlery, polished ceramic, nameless faces hurriedly cooked away to bring us to the table.
A few months into culinary school I received one of his many cookbooks, Appetites: A Cookbook. I can still hear his voice in the recipes, his passion for food that would never get a star, see him tearing into the Sausage and Pepper Hero with savage glee. I took it everywhere, read it while I waited at a Mazda dealership for a repair, read it before bed. Not once could I have imagined that it's author was in so much pain.
While I cannot put words in his mouth, which would be so disrespectful and absolutely wrong, I can relate to where he might have been. Inside the darkest depths of a mind, it is incredibly difficult to climb back out.
Bourdain was an inspiration, to me, to countless others, and hopefully will be in more ways to come. His death has made me take a more focused look on myself, and on the industry as a whole. Before my journey began, I loved his brash approach to food. Full frontal, nothing held back, diving into what this world actually is. No cuts, no edits, no script.
Kitchen life is fast, brutal, addicting. The high after a successful busy night is intoxicating, it pushes you to the edge of what you thought was possible, a balancing act on the literal edge of a blade, between the "perfect" experience and the dreaded return of a dish. I cannot get enough, and I have absolutely been there pushing beyond my own health for the pursuit of the dream.
Squid Ink pastry cone with salmon tartar at Matsuhisa Vail
I love this field, to create a memory from a few ingredients, there are few things I find more powerful. Great food is forged in memory; the smoked tomato puree bringing you back to spaghetti with Grandma; paw paw ice cream a reminder of frozen bananas during summer vacation. It is the epiphany of what we are losing today:
Human Connection.
I can't explain how hard it was to go home this time last year. The moment I stepped out of the kitchen, the reality that I was going home to a newly empty home would crush me. For too many nights I would drown my sorrows in drink, to quell the darkness that was growing inside.
I finally had the amazing job, the one I had dreamed of for years, it was what I always wanted. A challenging yet creative field, the possibility for travel, always a solid meal, and a craft that would always come in handy. But behind closed doors I was miserable. The moment my feet crossed that door, I wanted to die.
I had been awake nearly 50 hours in this photo of my last trip moving. I legitimately hallucinated on this last drive.
A newly emptied home waited for me night after night. A reminder of how much sacrifice it took to finally find the dream. Guilt. Sadness. Rage. Shame that I could be feeling so depressed, when I should be reveling that I found my passion, when so many people never get to work a job the love. It was isolating, I felt completely alone and helpless. It would be many months spiraling inward, exploding on those close to me, and isolating myself from everything that once made me happy.
I saw no end in my pain, no light on the horizon. Every time someone said that it would get better I wanted to punch them in the face. How could they possibly know? My pain was the only thing I had, and I refused to let it go. The fall down the well took months, yet eventually the bottom did appear.
I don't have an exact date when it happened, it wasn't like jumping into a lake where the water hit me all at once. It was more like waking up on a beach with the tide nudging me awake. Slowly I began to open my eyes and see that there was more around me than nights alone with a bottle of whiskey.
This journey has been long, even though it is only beginning. Even now I have moments where I slip, where my mind wanders into the forest, but now I can recognize when that moment comes along. Finally I can admit that it is okay to feel the loss, to be truthful about what it took to be here. I can see it in my past articles, see where I put up that mask and wrote how I should be feeling instead of what I was actually experiencing. The past made me who I am and I can only learn from it.
We are but grains of sand awash in the ocean of the Universe.
A statement I made in the beginning, still rings true, maybe now more than ever:
It's not about me. It isn't about you. It is about Us.
It has been hard for me. It was incredibly hard for Anthony. There are millions more who feel the same. And they all have a voice.
The vine is growing...
My work is just beginning, the mountain looms ahead, but so far the view has been amazing. The moment I stepped out of the trees, and was able to see the vista, that was when I realized I could smile after all. I know you can never read this, but your story has given me a reason to write, a reason to forge ahead. Because you are not alone, so many share your passion, your drive, and even your darkest fears. It is for them I do this, it is for you that I will grow and thrive.
Anthony Bourdain, you may be gone, but you will never be forgotten. Thank you for the life you gave me, the power of the voice, of the word. With it we will help inspire countless others, to help change the world.
From a seed, a field will grow.
For Tony.
