Dear Chef Bourdain,
You are a cocksucker. I can’t believe how you, without any prior knowledge on your part, have simultaneously inspired me so fully and yet so utterly destroyed the tattered and moth larvae eaten shreds of my confidence. The world you write about is no place for a sensitive, privileged white girl whose previous idea of a career led her to five years of finger-fucking writing school wherein all she really learned was that she’d likely end up a spent professor with no hope of tenure or creative inspiration ever again. You, sir, are a jerk for telling us all that in order to survive in a kitchen, regular ass-fucking jargon is prevalent and even integral to said kitchen’s hierarchy and gaining and maintaining the respect of everyone around you.
I am not completely convinced that you are any good at what you do with food, but I am so very envious of your ability to navigate and rule the world of ‘fine’ dining with a liberally lubed iron fist. It was a sad day for me this morning where, after reading through your memoir twice, straight through, in 72 hours, I realized I would have to de-sensitize myself and fast. I hate you. I love you.