When I woke up this morning and read that Anthony Bourdain had died, at the age of sixty-one, reportedly by suicide, it did not compute. Who was more volcanically alive? A chef turned writer and television host, he had designed a fantasy existence—travelling around the world, budget be damned, meeting interesting people and eating delectable food—and turned it into a paying job. When people asked Tony about his improbable life story, what they were really asking was how he had managed to get away with it. Tony himself tended to describe his good fortune as if he’d pulled off a spectacular heist.
Journalism can occasionally afford an opportunity for vicarious living. When, a couple of years ago, I proposed a Profile to Bourdain and he accepted, I was delighted by the prospect of following him around for a while, hanging out in New York and travelling with him to Vietnam. Tony was endlessly generous with his time: he liked to say yes to people. He bloomed late—it was only in his mid-forties that writing, and then television, secured a career for him outside the kitchen—and he never forgot that the first quarter century of his professional life had been spent toiling in sweaty, thankless, underpaid obscurity. Everything that had happened since, he told me, was “extra innings.”
If you are having thoughts of suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
Tony will be remembered for his infectious enthusiasms and his brash exuberance, but I was most inspired by his capacity for reinvention. As a young man, he had plunged, willfully, into heroin addiction—he had wanted to be an addict, he told me—and then decided, willfully, to quit. He was a good chef but never a great one, and, recognizing his limitations, he hustled to establish a writing career, eventually, in 2000, publishing the bestselling memoir “Kitchen Confidential,” which grew out of an article that appeared in this magazine.
In later life, Tony would recount his literary origin story in breezy terms: he wrote a little article about life in the kitchen, sent it off to The New Yorker, and, Whaddayaknow! They wanted to publish it. But, in truth, he had labored mightily on his writing, submitting fiction to literary magazines and publishing a couple of crime novels before someone suggested that he try nonfiction. When the opportunity arose to appear