Letters To Bourdain

Dear Chef Bourdain;

Yesterday I had one of those futureshock moments when I thought the internet had become even more awesome than I ever thought it was. Like CNN had personally written headlines and stories just for me.

Anthony Bourdain Wants To Get Drunk With You

Chef Bourdain wants to get drunk with me? That’s amazing!  But then I realized it was just an article shilling for your new  book “Medium Raw“. Not that there’s anything wrong with shilling for your new book. And in a meta sort of way, I’m doing it for you right here, aren’t I? Except, of course, that I have all of about a dozen readers. But they’ll buy your book, I’m sure. (Do it, slackers! You eat my food, you can buy the damn book!)

Actually, this sort of leads to an “teaching moment” about why I’m doing this. A lot of people ask if I have some sort of a man-crush on you, Chef Bourdain. Well, not really. Not that I don’t think you’re a swell fella – your books are tres amusante and “Without Reservations” is a great show. And you’ve got a great job of which I’m seriously jealous – go to interesting places and eat stuff? I’m in. I liked the first season better that involved more drinking, too.

But really, it’s about the food. I mean, it oughta be right? I wanted to learn to be a better cook, and I was pretty bad at sauces and pretty good with meat. So “Les Halles” seemed like a pretty great way to emphasize what I’m good at and address my weakness. Plus your writing style is funnier than Alton Brown’s. (Sorry Alton. Love “Good Eats”, though!)

So that’s the deal, I want to be a better cook – which I’m already making some incremental progress on. (Apparently the secret is making everything with heavy cream and butter, dear readers, if you want the short-cut, by the way.) Along the way I get to drink more wine than my lovely fiancee would probably support since you told me to, Chef – and eat some fantastic successes and wretched but interesting failures.

Now I’m off to make some pommes puree for Thanksgiving that are going to rock some socks right off.

Your Shill;

Davy