Over Labor Day weekend, I saw the biopic Tony at the Wellfleet Drive-In. It was my first experience at a drive-in (other than the Sci-Fi Dine-In Theater Restaurant at Disney) and the first time I’ve been faced with that much Anthony Bourdain since I met him in 2017.
I am being very liberal with the word “met.” As a young, unpaid and willing writer for a digital mag called The Knockturnal, I was given a number of special opportunities during my undergrad years at NYU. On the first, I was asked to head to Alamo Drafthouse to see the screening of Wasted! The Food Story About Waste, a docufilm with a topic I am sure readers can themselves discern. When I arrived at the screening, there was a short red carpet with a step-and-repeat and a laminated paper on the ground that said The Knockturnal. That’s when I understood that I somehow got a spot next to the Hollywood Reporter and whoever else would be covering the premiere — but also that I’d have to come up with something to ask the cast and crew, and fast.
There was word that Bourdain might be coming — he was on the tip sheet, but as I came to understand from the apparently seasoned camera guys to my left, stepping up on crates to perfect their shots, that doesn’t always mean they’ll show. Don’t get your hopes up.
But he did. At the top floor of the Alamo Drafthouse, Anthony Bourdain crouched sheepishly toward us all. He was late, and whether by design or to his sheer luck, he managed to avoid most of the reporters there. I never had to ask him a question. Or I never got to. He shook our hands but was happily ushered to his seat, and I to mine. I was happy that the bar didn’t card me so I (19 then) could have a rum and Diet Coke, the only thing I knew to order. I felt like a real adult, around real adults. If only I knew.
Tony is a biopic that illuminates only a small portion of Bourdain’s life. The film is a fantastic and beautiful and real representation of Provincetown, even as I come to know it all these years later. We watched the movie at the very drive-in that’s featured in the film — his on-screen self glides by on a bicycle like a teenager, like a child.
Tony was scored by specific songs Bourdain mentioned throughout his lifetime, ending with The Action’s song “Brain,” which I’ve already been listening to all summer. It made me drink my own tears.
You don’t have long to go // remember me, remember me // cause I’m the one who made you see
I learned too much about Anthony Bourdain after the fact. He went to school at Dwight Englewood, 20 minutes from my home in Mahwah, and graduated from Vassar College, the alma mater of my younger sister Natalia.
He first arrived to Provincetown probably the same way I did, wide-eyed with love and high on the idea of my own youth.
When I met him, I think I thought he was an asshole. I think I thought he was a stand-offish jerk. These thoughts feel familiar to me now even though I can’t recognize them. Even though, still, he himself may say they’re true.
In Tony, Chef — an amalgam of his several individual culinary inspirations — tells him the story of 17th century French cook Francois Vatel, who killed himself before a banquet to Louis XIV because he didn’t have enough fish to serve. Dominic Sessa, who plays the young Bourdain, doesn’t comprehend.
“He killed himself? Why?”
“He didn’t have enough fish.”
Over the last week, I read this article and have been haunted by it ever since. This author had a much more legitimate interaction with the man than I did, but managed to encapsulate exactly what I am trying to accomplish here. In an interview with Iggy Pop, Bourdain’s hero, he asks what thrills a legend such as himself nowadays.
And is it just me—or does Bourdain’s face fall?
After Bourdain’s death, I passed by the Les Halles at 15 John in Lower Manhattan on the way to waste another beautiful day with a former friend. It was still June. It was just over a year since we shook hands. The roll-up grate was fronted by candles, flowers, notes, photographs, bottles of wine. Now, I know that he was the executive chef at the Les Halles on Park Avenue, and wrote about it in detail in Kitchen Nightmares. Now, I know a lot more than I did before.
I know that you can see the world, and wished to have seen nothing at all. Can love, and have chased that feeling to the bottom of the barrel just to come up empty handed. That the only thing better than living was being able to forget that you had. That it’s stunning and horrible and beautiful things can make you cry.
As I sit in an open trunk watching a fictional flash of his life I am devastated by what I did not know. Had I been less ignorant, less self-absorbed, more aware, what would I have asked Anthony Bourdain? Would I make eye contact with his publicist, say “I just have a quick one,” and look him in the eyes?
Years later, something else gives me solace. Anthony Bourdain wanted nothing more than to get off that carpet. The least I could have done for him was not ask another stupid question. I think now that I might have one ready. Night has fallen as I’ve written these words. I’d like to believe that now, I would be ready.