Dear Anthony Bourdain

A love letter of sorts

Dear Anthony Bourdain,

I’m sitting at my favorite coffee shop in Connecticut. It’s noon, which means it’s full of women and their children, men grabbing coffee on their lunch break, and duos catching up over salads and sandwiches that are delicious, but overpriced. I do not fit in. I do not have children, I do not come here on my lunch break and I’m almost always here alone. But I still love it. There is a long bench that looks out the window towards the ocean. There are five tables arranged in the center of the shop. I try not to take up too much space, but the Lunch Ladies glare at me taking up a table when I’m just one person. Eventually I oblige; feeling that I can wrap up my reading or writing for the day. I let them take my table so they can compare child care facilities and where they’re vacationing next weekend. You’d probably hate that coffee shops have become spaces for people to clack away on their computers.

It has a nautical theme, being on the coast of Connecticut and all. A copy of Molly Baz’s Cook This Book sit’s on the top shelf across from the register. The other shelves are decorated with Zab’s Hot Sauce, greeting cards, Zatar Chips and other expensive pantry items. The barista knows my name and I know his. If it’s cold out I get a vanilla cappuccino and if it’s hot, an iced vanilla latte. The barista never charges me for vanilla and always bring my coffee to my table. Everyone else has to get up and pick theirs up from the counter once their number is called.

I was going to address this letter to you by just your first name, but that felt informal. But this is also a crazy letter to be writing because 1) you’re dead and 2) I do not know you. But you have a way with words that makes me feel like I could address you as Anthony, but I won’t go so far as to call you Tony. That would be weird. I just finished reading your book, A Cook’s Tour. As I made my way through each country and it’s subsequent chapter I would open my laptop and watch it’s complimentary Food Network episode. It was such a pleasurable reading experience; I think I’ll do it all over again.

It’s been over 20 years since you wrote A Cook’s Tour, but it doesn’t feel like it. Your stories and experiences with locals in so many different corners of the world are just as valuable now as they were then. Your ability to bounce between tender childhood reflections about you father in France to the most vivid descriptions of slaughtering a pig in Spain is admirable. My favorite part is when you’re eating at the French Laundry and Chef Keller brings out the “coffee and a cigarette”: Marlboro-infused coffee custard with foie gras and you blushed down to your socks out of embarrassment. As I read that, and watched it, I couldn’t help but have that same reaction. As if I was also in California enjoying an 8 hour dinner customized to my addictions and niches.

Oh, and you should have never felt guilty for getting paid to travel the world and eat food. People do much dumber shit these days and get paid an amount of money you wouldn’t even believe for it. I’m shocked you grew to appreciate durian, it is still something that hasn’t gained any type of popularity here in the states. However, you can buy natto on Amazon.

I’ve annotated the hell out of this book, so I can read back your beautiful prose repeatedly and so I can add these cities and food experiences to my travel plans. Your descriptions of walking Vietnam beaches and the meals you had there made me stop reading to text my best friend and declare my need to go to Vietnam.

Has anyone ever been so charming on the written page? The answer is no. I wish we could have an espresso and smoke a cigarette at this coffee shop together. The Lunch Ladies would hate that.

With love,

Gabbie