The Nasty Bits

I think it’s fair to say that I have a little bit of a worship complex about Tony Bourdain. I’ve written before that he has the single best job on earth, to travel the world and eat great, interesting food. He also has a great perspective on life, whether it’s the sadness of what happened in Lebanon, or the Food Network’s darker sides, or simply how to behave as an responsible tourist and guest.

Of course, this has taken a toll on his life – his marriage didn’t last and that had to be a crushing event. For someone who has recovered from both heroin and cocaine addiction, Bourdain should be a poster child not only for recovery but for being your own person. Of course, he’s an insanely talented chef and writer, as well as being incredibly personable and charismatic, so it’s not like he’s starting with an empty hand of cards.

Nonetheless, I am a devoted fan of No Reservations and his sadly infrequent posts on Michael Ruhlman’s blog and of course, anything he publishes. That’s why I was not only willing to break a personal rule in terms of reading The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones but excited about it.

That rule is – never pay someone for a collection of stories they’ve already been paid for. The problem with collections of random pieces of writings is that they’re unconnected, and that dissonance gets distracting. Especially when they are artificially repackaged in collections that purport to have an overall theme. (I’m thinking specifically about Po Bronson’s The Nudist on the Late Shift, but this is a transgression many authors make.) I’m not sure why most authors pretend to do this, but I guarantee Bourdain would be open and honest about it – the money or a contractual obligation, he’d say.

Like Bill Simmons’ Now I Can Rest In Peace, Bourdain adds to his reprinted columns with updated commentary about the articles in question. Simmons peppered the margins with this commentary which was fantastic, but Bourdain stays a bit traditional by holding back his commentary until an appendix.

Almost all of the articles span just a few pages, as they originally appeared in magazines. (Apparently none of these were for The New Yorker.) And most of them are highly entertaining, and genuinely fun to read.

They are divided into categories that generally reflect the tone of the essays in those sections – Salty, Sweet, Sour, Bitter and Umami (apparently, the fifth basic taste we could recognize as Savory.) And he includes a somewhat sweet bit of fiction at the very end. I’m a fan of everything in the Sour and Bitter sections (with a notable exception if Sleaze Gone By, discussed later in this post.)

Who else but Bourdain could write something like this, from his essay “A Drinking Problem”

Vegetarians in a pub? For their own good, vegetarians should never be allowed near fine beers and ales. It will only make them loud and belligerent, and they lack the physical strength and aggressive nature to back up any drunken assertions.

Or this, from Woody Harrelson: Culinary Muse:

First of all, why would anyone listen to Woody Harrelson about anything more important than how to be a working Hollywood actor or how to make a bong out of a toilet-paper roll and tinfoil?

And who would listen to anyone who can visit Thailand -- a country with one of the most vibrant, varied, exciting culinary cultures on the planet (including a rich tradition of tasty vegetarian fare) – and refuse to sample its proudly served and absolutely incredible bounty? What kind of cramped, narrow, and arrogant worldview could excuse shutting oneself off totally from the greater part of an ancient and beautiful culture?

To my mind, there’s no difference between Woody, the New Age gourmet, ensuring a clean colon by eating the same thing every day, and the classic worst-case, xenophobic tourist – the one who whether in Singapore, Rome, Hanoi or Mexico City insists on eating every meal in the hotel restaurant. One fears “dirty” water, “unsafe” vegetables, “ooky,” “weird,” and unrecognizable local specialities. The other fears “toxins” and “impurities.”

You have to love this. And in his epilogue, Bourdain rectifies his biggest transgression, Sleaze Gone By – an essay devoted to the old New York City, where he basically laments the fact that it’s now a safe place to walk around. (He sums it up by saying, “What a twat I was when I wrote this.”)

He also stands by some of the better pieces (regarding the Woody Harrelson piece – “I meant every word of this and still do.”) and provides context to some of the others, talking about what he was going through when he wrote it. In all, it’s a nice addition to pieces that in general are strong enough to stand on their own.

This turned out to be a much longer post than I’d expected, but it was a great book and as always, Bourdain rocks.

Rating: 8.5/10.0