Bourdain apparently is a man who has an impassioned
relationship with food, an idea that is patently obvious for two reasons.
Notice first the manner in which he explains his relationship with food.
Bourdain’s rate of compositional speed leaves him dazzling in a category all
his own. Whether he is sampling vatapa and forofa at the beloved ‘Sorriso
da Dadà’ or sharing chops beachfront with carioca while enjoying
little fried cakes with cachaca served in coconuts by women wearing white
skirts with traditional headdress, we are left with an eclectic montage of
savory explicits, if I could qualify the noun. Wondering through the streets of
Bahia with Bourdain leaves you feeling emotionally involved with his dining
experiences in ‘cobble-stoned Colonial neighborhoods’ or on beaches situated
between ‘eighteenth-century lighthouses and open-aired restaurants on a bluff
at the other end.’ Usually there is a noticeable experience that trumps all the
rest in any given location leaving you satisfied and happy you went along, much
like the feeling found at Barra, and everyone knows it can’t be as blissful all
of the time, but one is hopeful.
Despite the delicious wonder charmed on every page by this
fluent necromancer of the printed word we are sometimes stunned by his sharp
criticism and biting wit which inevitably ends up charging the reader with as
much pomp as a self-righteous vicar; our palates are crystallized with
Bourdain’s words and we become instant food snobs. Nestled some where between each
escalating rendezvous we find that Bourdain does in fact have a shelf for words
used to express his disdain like ‘insipid California
‘Taka’s face, previously filled
with enthusiasm as he discussed the films of Werner Herzog, went slack as he
laid eyes on the limp graying tuna,’[1]
Whether it is Bourdain’s expressive disdain for terrible
Sushi and gnawing use of perilous adjectives or the way he captures the moment
of ‘paradise’ we can appreciate the marvelous relationship with food by the way
he explains it.
This leads us to the second detail highlighting this
intimate relationship that can be summed up with a question. What does Bourdain
love more, eating the food or writing about it? A fairly presumptuous question
indeed but one I feel is critical to understanding the man’s work because
without this incessant love affair with food Bourdain is a fish out of water. I
will go as far as stating on the one hand that he could write about eating an
MRE (a Meal Ready-to-Eat) in the trenches amidst a war
with all its misery and ungodly quarters familiar to any veteran and Bourdain could
make money in the process, but the moment you take the MRE away the white flag
goes up. In other words, Bourdain could be writing about his experience in a
soup kitchen under a bridge in lower Manhattan and we would love him for it,
but as soon as the tray of food is removed his adjectives would become brass
and fall to the floor, the expressions on the patrons beside him would wind up
on the canvas of the pandering caricature artist outside the front doors and
his ink would dry up like gravy on a lapel right before the nap on thanksgiving
day.
For me, it is this romantic relationship Bourdain shares
with his food that draws readers into the dynamic; Bourdain’s work is
completely infused with his passion and it remains the envy of some, especially those
who 'live to eat.’
‘Bottom’s up!’
No comments:
Post a Comment