I never met Bourdain. And I regret it.

(It took me a day to write this because I couldn’t think of what to write for the first twelve hours.)

I wanted to. I knew he showed up in several South Beach Food and Wine festivals in the years past, but I never went for reasons.

He was one of my favorite writers in the last two decades. He was unflinching with his self reflections. He never shied away from his own flaws being an addict. He spoke up for those who were downtrodden. He called Alan Richman a cunt in print and in public because that cunt deserves it.

He taught me to spot sketchy restaurants and that “good” restaurants are sometimes shitty because rich people don’t always have good taste in food. He embraced grilled intestines in Thailand as much as seared foie gras. He validated my own food history of fat, guts, and glory. He made everything he ate sound enjoyable. He validated the idea that GOOD FOOD IS FOR EVERYONE.

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Rest In Peace.