The written word is not dead.

Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, are still alive. A reflection about Anthony Bourdain and hope.

To Tony, today and every single day.

An Open Letter to Anthony Bourdain

By Jessica B. Sokol

(Written June 8, 2018)

I’m not sure if it’s okay to call you by your nickname, but I want to. I called in sick from work today and am pulling books off my shelf to stack on my mosaic coffee table. Not just the ones you wrote either, but ones I bought that you recommended on your shows: The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola and Hotel Bemelmans by Ludwig Bemelmans. Your Kitchen Confidential sits on the top. My dad does this sort of display with his vinyl records at my parents’ home whenever a legendary musician passes away, as an ode, a memorial, for several weeks. I’ve adopted the tradition and made it my own by honoring late authors with their writings. It’s warm and muggy today, and I don’t want to leave my apartment in Northampton, Massachusetts, but I’m here by myself. What happened to you? Can I tell you about my day?

My mom calls and wakes me this morning at 7:45, telling me she’s just read that you’ve died. My body shoots up in bed, and I shout, “NO, NO, NO!” I furiously check every news outlet on my phone hoping it’s a false report. I call and wake my husband, Joel, and tell him. He’s working on the West Coast today, so it’s only 4:45 for him, but I don’t care. I’m feeling helpless. He’s speechless, so I shut my eyes and cry myself back to sleep. What happened to you? Why?

I wake up an hour later and feel almost as sick and defeated as I did the day after the last “Presidential” election. This is bad. I’ve never felt so sad over someone I’ve never met. My heart and stomach are aching. I really didn’t understand how so many people could be so devastated over Prince or Carrie Fisher or David Bowie or Robin Williams when they passed. How could I? I didn’t know them. How could my friends feel so sad? I didn’t get it... until now.

I groggily stagger over to my laptop and start tearing up again. Only yesterday I queued up the No Reservations episode from Greece to watch with Joel this weekend. We’re heading there soon, and you always know how to show us the way in our travels around this crazy world. The open tab is still brightly searing my eyes, staring at me. I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll bring myself to watch it now.

It’s not just your books and shows that make you so special to me. It always feels like you are talking directly to me when I read your words, and I hear your voice in my head. I hear it now. I always re-watch your shows to guide me, like a friend, to the best bars and bookstores in whichever city I’m visiting next. You speak my language. Would I have discovered Bemelmans Bar or Kitchen Arts & Letters on the Upper East Side without your help? Without your guidance, would The Long Hall and The Palace be my first spots to enjoy whiskey and a pint every January that I visit Dublin? It feels as though I’ve lost a mentor, a pal. I feel selfishly lost, like you took a part of me with you. And my family and friends now know that if they’ve ever traveled with me, they’ve lost you too.

Your storytelling truly resonates with me. And I hoped you were someone I’d get to give a big hug to and thank someday for influencing not only my writing, but my fearless, adventurous spirit. And I’m very aware I’m not the only one.

People ask me today if I know about your disdain for vegetarians and vegans? Of course I do, and it’s also a reason I wanted to meet you so badly. Joel always said you’d totally change your mind about vegans after meeting me, but that’s not the point. Your disapproval of this lifestyle was not superficial. I believe you always wanted people to just be more gracious when traveling, and open-minded when offered food. It wasn’t a disdain of anything, but rather a love of accepting things that are different and outside our comfort zones. I also recall watching you at some sort of vegan temple or monastery years ago on a show, and you were nothing but appreciative.

Only two nights ago while watching The Food Network, my mom asks how “we” feel about you these days, when discussing the development of celebrity chefs being called out by women. I reply, “Oh my god. He’s one of the good guys. His girlfriend was allegedly raped by Harvey Weinstein, and he’s not only using his platform to stick up for her, but for all women. He’s a loud and proud proponent of the #metoo movement. And even though he’s never been accused of anything, he’s apologized on behalf of the whole boys’ club restaurant industry in general. He’s a true mensch.”

You could have gone either way with your thoughts on #metoo, and I honestly may have given you a pass had you gone the other way, but that’s just me and how I feel about men I want to sleep with. The bigger point is that you stepped up respectably, way up. Talk about sexy.

Did the scandal get to you? Did Weinstein’s people get to you? Were you terminally sick from an illness and wanting to end your life on your own terms? Were you suicidal-sad from years of seeing more of this world’s underbelly than one person should have to see? I’m sorry for all the questions, I really don’t know what to think. I’m crushed.

Can I mention one more thing? Your meeting with President Obama in Vietnam will always live on as one of my favorite television episodes of all time. I couldn’t stop kvelling over you two, two of the most beautiful men sitting together sharing noodles and beer. Men who truly are diplomats, men who want to make this world a better place. My heroes. I still hope I get to meet one of you someday, it just won’t be you.

My dad tells me tonight how weird it is to watch all these people younger than him pass on. I share with him how sad I feel, and he says, “This makes me want to take better care of myself, not just for the people I love, but for myself.” We’re walking to the liquor store, where he purchases Balvenie scotch. I think you’d approve, Tony. Tonight, we will toast you in gratitude... to my friend I never got to meet. May you find peace in your new parts unknown.