Our guest today: Anthony Bourdain (as seen in Parts Unknown Quebec)

This ode is written for Anthony Bourdain and for those who stayed behind

An Ode to Anthony Bordain

 

I watch you speak to a baby on the 

Gaza strip, to a cat in Quebec and a 

teenager in Beirut. You speak in

order to listen, to understand, to

bring voice, to celebrate. You listen 

to those on the other side of the 

track. The outsider, the immigrant...

Those long forgotten. You speak to 

the bikers, the loners, the dreamers. You

speak to those who slink on the margins

of our world, a room where the bed is 

always unmade-

for the romantics. You listen to how

they chop onions and cook. You listen

to their frying pans and their fires. You

are watching them, your eyes are dry,

but I know they are not,  and your

hands light up, your eyes, your belly, that

soft part on your chin.

 

You listen to the musicians as they play

and accompany you to the eating houses

and battlefields, the broken street corners

and the wonder of inspiration, gods, 

instruments, voice, lyrics, drums, and 

those with something to say. Something 

that is more

than the here and now. More than money

and more than the tangible. You choose 

the creatives in the same way you choose a cat 

to speak to in Quebec or that baby on the Gaza

strip or a teenager who is hopeful of the 

Future. In Beirut your never know, but 

you listen, even when you are

head over heels with this city of bombs

or that town of fear or the settlement that

serves mint within their water. 

 

 

You know that food is story

And story is life and knowledge

and 

love 

and 

if we all knew that a 'falafel'

did not originate here or 

there, that there might be peace if only

it could be that simple. If only we could

all eat together, and listen to the story

of skin and house and hound and honour

and horror and homo sapiens. 

We could listen. Like you. Go where you go

and see what you see. How absurd life is.

You have pages and pages of accolades but 

you do not look at them. You are on the 

road, filming the human condition and

food and music and community and what

brings us together and what makes us

carry on, even though we sit in the dark sometimes. 

(some more than others)

 

Who listens to you? 

Who speaks to you about lonely 

hotel rooms and hours at airports and 

room service without soul for those

in between meals? Who sings you a 

lullaby when you are in a bed with 

strange smelling sheets today and tomorrow

and the day after that? Who tells you that

It would be okay? Who speaks to you in the

same way you speak to a teenager in Beirut 

who were born after the war. Who holds

you as gently as you hold a baby on the 

Gaza strip around a fire of melons? Who 

walks with you when your liminal world 

falls off the cliff of imperfection/perfection? 

The Cat In Quebec?

 

I do not want to go to France and 

visit your body for your body is not 

there of here or anywhere. Your body

is on our tongues. In our intestines. 

Your ash is gathered with languages 

that face extinction. Some granules lie

with the unheard, the unseen, the 

scrawny ones that exist in the underbelly

in cities unknown to most. Some of your

bits are with those who face war (again)

Or those who are being made a refugee. 

(Again and again)

Flecks are spread with those on big bikes

And tonight they are with us as we

Remember 

You

Anthony

Bordain

 

written by Merle Grace 2022

***

Some pictures of our dinner with Anthony's ashes, the Quebec episode of Parts Unknown, and our own take on maple syrup, while imagining tons of snow. Thank you Zenobia for inviting this special person who transformed food and how we see our world.

I know you love to eat on street corners, but I got you this table cloth from the street, from all of us

Some of your wise/humble/tongue in cheek words, ended up in the trees. But then it rained and they were moved inside. We read them and lit incense for you. Anthony Bourdain. I prayed for those who stayed behind. May they love you, always. 

I cheated a bit and prayed again today, in the sunshine

Starters... we got you a raclette with fresh berries and tomatoes from the garden...and a beetroot carpacchio with anchovies and fried beans.

Zenobia is the one who invited you, and she invited maple syrup too, which even landed up in the chicken. 

These onions! They sang in our bellies as we missed you. 

Helen made melt in the mouth sugar tart. Perfect, every bite was perfect. 

Extras Extras Extras

Watch the episode that  inspired this evening (more than 40 min of watching)

Mark Lanegan sings the saddest and most beautiful song in this Seattle episode. Give it a listen. (Mine is on repeat... and Big Thanks to Fred de Vries who pointed out the Lanegan-Bourdain connection... and RIP Mark  who passed away in February this year.)

Buy a table cloth! From the ladies at the Thomas Bowler side of the Emmarentia Dam 

There is always help available. Go speak to someone. 

And lastly, to all the outsiders, go listen to  Jim White. He says it all!