Thank You, Anthony Bourdain

Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential

“I’m not going anywhere. I hope. It’s been an adventure. We took some casualties over the years. Things got broken. Things got lost.

“But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” —Anthony Bourdain

Friday, June 8: the final morning of my latest business trip. I opened my eyes to a shrieking alarm in a Las Vegas hotel room. I reached for the phone, last night still weighing my body down, and placed my thumb over the virtual snooze button.

A few minutes passed and just before dozing off, the sound of a text message kept me conscious. I could have ignored it and waited for the alarm to start again but something told me it deserved a look. It was my wife.

“Babe, Bourdain killed himself,” the text read.

In an instant, the drinks from the night before were erased. My mind cleared, my heart sank, and my soul ached. This, over a man whose hand I never shook.

I met my wife in late 1997 at the job I took as a freshman to pay for college. Like me, she had immigrated to the United States as a child with her parents, leaving behind the civil war that tore El Salvador apart. Both of us only knew El Salvador through the stories our parents told. Our personalities shaped by the city of Los Angeles and our Salvadoran roots. We grew close quickly and married about a year after we began dating. Three years later, we had our first child.

Of course, being a young couple, reality was far from a paradise. We had no money, worked long hours, and had this beautiful girl to somehow nurture and protect. Our only respite from the daily grind was television.

We came across No Reservations one night in 2005. We both enjoyed the show but to me, it was like a drug. I couldn’t get enough of it. We’d spend hours watching television into the night but I clamored for the times at which the Travel Channel presented Anthony Bourdain’s gastronomical adventures on No Reservations and later on The Layover. Here was this chef who was foul-mouthed, loved to drink, of course worshipped food, and narrated his various life experiences in a beautifully poetic, yet honestly raw manner.

Anthony Bourdain was authentic. There were many television hosts that traveled and tasted food but none like Tony. Having earned his way up through the kitchens of the Jersey Shore in his teens starting out as a dishwasher, he was always seemingly on the same level as his viewers. It didn’t matter, to him or us, that he was a distinguished chef who had seen the world and had opportunities we never did.

Never hiding behind a Travel Channel persona, Bourdain was an open book. He shared various escapades of his life, some hilariously embarrassing, others just regrettable. He was sincere about his battles with heroin and cocaine addiction. I tuned in to watch a flawed individual with a passion for food and a gift for storytelling. Through each episode he provided a seductive account of a chapter of his life and made me feel like I was there alongside him.

Bourdain enjoyed fine dining as most chefs do but he had a special bond for street food, hole-in-the-wall dives, and local working-class spots. He had respect for the people—often immigrants—behind these establishments and he never made himself superior to any of them.

The ultimate realization of No Reservations, its predecessor A Cook’s Tour, and the final incarnation, CNN‘s Parts Unknown, was that these shows were not about food but about cultural enlightenment and acceptance. Bourdain’s shows were about the people that toiled over their food and were equally happy to share the fruits of their labor with those who respected their work and their passion. In each episode, he introduced us to a people’s plight, their struggles, their fears, their insecurities, and their love, through their food. At the same time, we learned these same qualities about him.

The news of Tony’s passing shook me as if I had lost a dear friend. And in a way, I did. Through his words, I got to know him, I got to know others, and I even learned a little about myself. I thank him for helping me get over the fear of growing older. Now, as my 40’s loom just over the horizon, I don’t envision an old man preparing for the latter, less interesting part of his life. Instead, I face these new years with optimism and confidence. I know the scars of the past 38 years have prepared me for the years ahead. I know if I enjoy life and seek out new adventures, I will never be old. I know that old is a state of mind and that I am never too old for a new piercing, a new tattoo, a new wound, or a new story to tell.

Thank you, Tony, for helping me see the world and for showing me it is possible to find happiness in being yourself while learning from those around you.

Real Cars at the Mecum Auto Auction

Mecum Auto Auction and Dodge Thrill Ride, 2018

Between work, play, and family, Las Vegas is like a second home. This time around, work brought me to the City of Sin a week before Thanksgiving. I flew in Friday morning to walk a stage lighting trade show that day. My job requires I walk shows in search of new markets or product ideas. I landed early but was able to check into my room at about 9 AM at no additional cost. The show didn’t open to the public until 11 AM and after waking up at 4 AM to make the first flight out of Long Beach, I decided to take a nap.

I woke up around 10:30 refreshed and ready to catch the monorail to the convention center. I’ve made this trip so many times it’s become mundane but things were about to take a positive turn on this trip. As the train approached the convention center station I could hear revving engines in the streets below. Being from L.A., I simply assumed someone was flooring the gas pedal at the green light. The blasts continued and grew louder as we reached the station and the doors slid open.

I stepped outside and looked all around to figure out where the commotion was coming from and noticed barricades and traffic cones in a parking lot. The train and other station structures obstructed the view. Then—like a wildcat jumping out to ambush its prey—a neon green Dodge Challenger leapt out of hiding and onto a makeshift racetrack. The car drifted through two figure-8 patterns while plumes of smoke escaped from between the pavement and burning rubber tires.

After only a few moments of staring at the scene below, I had lost all interest in walking a lighting show. I made my way out of the monorail station and stood atop the escalators for a few more minutes getting a full glimpse of the action. In a partnership with the Mecum Auto Auction—a traveling auction for car collectors—Dodge had built this drifting track for all visitors.

I stared at the makeshift track for a while but eventually pulled myself away to go walk the show that brought me to Vegas in the first place. I needed to finish the work before I got down to playing in Las Vegas. I knew I would find my way back to the cars at some point that day.

It took a few hours but I did eventually make my way back to LVCC South. Approaching from the other halls made it easy to spot the crowd lined up for the Dodge Hellcat Thrill Ride. I walked over and parked myself at the end of the line.

The line moved quickly and the drifting action kept everyone entertained for the duration of the wait. There was also a Dodge emcee that kept the crowd engaged giving away small prizes for answering car trivia. He would also sprinkle tidbits about the cars in the demo—none more interesting than the tire facts. The demo went on nonstop from the start of the show until sunset and each set of tires lasted about two hours. They were running through 10 sets of tires per day and this was only day two of a four-day show.

Tires: Before and after

My turn came up and I hopped into a beautiful Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat. The driver introduced himself and proceeded to the starting line as I buckled up. He asked if I was ready as he approached the line without ever coming to a complete stop (what we Angelenos recognize as a California stop) and hit the gas!

The car pushed out of the starting position without hesitation and immediately made a hairpin turn to the left. It quickly exploded again through a short straightaway before the real drifting began. The Hellcat maneuvered through the turns in a matter of seconds. Each turn tossed me off to one side while the driver remained still and in control. Coming out of the last turn, the driver smashed the gas one last time to push the car to the drop-off point. The last growl of the beast subsided to an impressive purr as it came to a complete stop. I exited from the demonic feline under an adrenaline rush and made my way to the auction entrance.

The Hellcat

The south hall of LVCC had never looked this large. There were cars as far as the eye could see, each asking to be ogled, caressed, and driven. There were dripping wet hot rods, freshly waxed GTO’s, pristine Camaros, and mint-condition cars of the 30’s and 40’s.

My biggest car obsession has always been the Ford Mustang. The infatuation runs so deep that I find every version of the car exciting—even the 80’s compacts with lackluster power. Every decade, every generation of the famed pony car was represented inside the building. My mind drifted. I could see myself driving from Buena Park to Echo Park each evening in one of these horses. The irritations of the daily traffic jam dissipated with a Mustang engine at my command.

A better way to navigate L.A. traffic

I spent a few hours perusing the aisles: taking pictures, feeling leather interiors, and daydreaming. After making it to the end, I worked my way back to the center of the action. No visit to an auto auction would be complete without pausing to witness the spectacle. There were rows of seated collectors waiting for the right car to be pushed through the red carpet before them. As the sought-after vehicle approached, they waited patiently for the auctioneer to introduce the features of the car before seamlessly transitioning into the signature rapid-fire auctioneer vocalizations. He’d throw out a number, point to the hand in the air, and move to the next bid up and continue the process until hands stopped going up. Hands went up emotionless, like poker players refusing to reveal their hand.

Once the bidding stopped, the car was pushed away from the viewing area. A worker would hop in the car, start it up, and drive it back to its designated parking area for the remainder of the show. The car then sat marked “sold” until the buyer claimed it at the end of the weekend.

The sounds and smells familiar to car enthusiasts were everywhere. You could hear a Corvette roar to life, see a Plymouth Superbird cruise through the halls, and spot a restored Model T shake and rattle its chrome components. The aroma of gasoline permeated throughout the hall. In today’s world of the silent Prius, self-parking Fusion, and self-driving Tesla, the Mecum Auto Auction was a reminder of how driving a car should always feel.