When Tony Came to Town

I forgive Mr. Bourdain for dissing our oysters in return for some memorable tales

Anthony Bourdain, not a descendant of French oystermen, with what I can only assume are not warm water oysters.

Hello, hungry people.

I came across a new book the other day, “Care and Feeding,” by Laurie Woolever, about her years as an assistant to Anthony Bourdain. And it got me thinking about the three days I spent attending to the care and feeding of the very same guy.

Bourdain was the main attraction at the Florida Film and Food Festival a few years back, and the organizers asked me to be his handler/chauffeur/chaperone while he was in town. It was a pretty tight schedule, with back-to-back events and meals, including a special barbecue lunch at the Ravenous Pig and, at Luma, a re-creation of the dinner from Babette’s Feast.

We had a few free hours after Bourdain’s arrival, and I’d been racking my brain about where to take him. I mean, where would you take Anthony Bourdain?

I wanted someplace authentic, someplace that spoke of Central Florida, someplace divey, someplace with a little grit, someplace where we might perhaps get into a little trouble, someplace that would fit right in with “No Reservations.”

And I hit upon the perfect spot, a joint I’d been frequenting since my father first took me there back in the 1950s. Lee & Rick’s Oyster Bar on Old Winter Garden Road in Orlando.

***

“What kind of oysters?” Bourdain asked after I picked him up at the airport and told him my plans.

“Apalachicolas, probably,” I said “Maybe some Cedar Keys or some from Louisiana. Gulf of Mexico oysters.”

Bourdain shook his head.

“I will not eat warm-water oysters,” he said.

“What do you mean you won’t eat warm-water oysters?”

This was Anthony Bourdain, a man who made his living out of eating and drinking anything and everything wherever he went, who had downed deer penis wine in Singapore and nibbled on cheese served with live maggots while visiting Sardinia.

“I come from a long line of French oystermen,” he said. “And I will only eat cold-water oysters.”

I later learned that this was complete bullshit, or, if you will, mollusk merde. There were no oystermen in Bourdain’s family. But he did have a thing against oysters as we know them in Florida. And within five minutes of him getting in my car we were in a heated argument with me defending oysters from our waters and Bourdain saying something to the effect that he’d prefer to lick his own butt.

It was not pleasant. We rode along several minutes without talking. I’d envisioned the two of us getting to be buds over buckets of oysters and beer. But instead of going to Lee & Rick’s, or going anywhere, Bourdain insisted that I take him straight to his hotel.

And I drove off thinking: I have to spend three days with this asshole?

***

“Look, man, I’m sorry,” Bourdain said later when I picked him up at his hotel. “I was a dick. I’ve been on the road for six weeks. I’ve got a two-month-old baby at home who won’t let me sleep. All I wanted was to get to the hotel and hop in bed.”

He was a stand-up guy about it. We got along fine after that.

Be that as it may, I still couldn’t talk him into going to Lee & Rick’s.

***

Hanging out with Bourdain reminded me of when I hung out with Mick Jagger. Which has never happened, but I can’t think of anything else to compare it to.

Put it this way: I’ve never attended another event at downtown Orlando’s venerable Citrus Club where grown women opened their blouses and asked someone to autograph their chests.

That happened with Bourdain.

As did the book-signing at the old Borders/Winter Park Village where the line went out the door and into the parking lot. The event was supposed to last only an hour, but Bourdain said he’d stick around until he’d signed everyone’s books. We had an ice cooler full of beer and wine. Perhaps some bourbon, too. Folks were having a good time.

A guy about my age, sixties at the time, took me aside and said: “I want to be the last person in line.”

“OK,” I said. “Why’s that?”

“I have something personal I want to ask Mr. Bourdain.”

I told the guy fine, do as he pleased, and two hours later there he was, the last person in line, face to face with Anthony Bourdain.

“Mr. Bourdain, I need you to help me make a decision.”

“OK, I’ll try,” Bourdain said.

“I’ve been accepted at both the Culinary Institute of America and the French Culinary Institute,” the guy. “I don’t know which one to choose.”

Bourdain smiled and stuck out his hand.

“That’s great, congratulations. It’s so cool that you want to pursue your hobby like that.”

“I’m not pursuing a hobby,” the guy said. “I want a career as a chef.”

Bourdain looked the guy up and down. Like I said, sixties.

“Dude,” Bourdain said. “You’re too fucking old.”

The guy looked devastated. I thought he might melt into the floor.

Bourdain grabbed a beer from the ice chest and gave it to him.

“Screw it,” Bourdain said. “Go anyway.”

***

And then there was the event at Enzian Theater where people paid $25 a head to hear Bourdain in conversation with Norman Van Aken, who I would describe as a legendary chef and Florida icon, except he would get pissed off at me for making him sound old.

The place was packed, mostly with young chefs and restaurant workers, who worshipped both men on the stage and thought of themselves as pirates. Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential” was a bible to them.

There was a rowdy Q&A session, another long line for autographs. When it was over, we stepped outside and Bourdain said: “Look what someone gave me.”

He opened his hand to reveal: Two neatly rolled joints.

“What should I do with them?”

And before I could suggest that we might consider smoking them, Bourdain headed for the Enzian’s kitchen. It was packed with chefs and cooks from all over town who had thrown in to help feed everyone at the event.

Bourdain walked in and everything stopped

He held up the two joints and shouted: “Who wants dope?”

Then he tossed them to the crowd. A wild scramble ensued. And a young guy who’d been washing dishes came up with one of the joints.

He looked at it as if it were a holy relic.

“I don’t know whether to get him to autograph it or smoke it,” he said.

Bourdain autographed it.

I cannot vouch for whether it still exists.

***

I can’t say we remained close personal friends over the years. I had his phone number. I shot him an occasional text about something of his I’d seen or read and liked. I’d always hear back.

The last text was in early 2018. Our publishing company, Story Farm, was working on a book to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Musso & Frank, the oldest restaurant in Hollywood, a place that has appeared in countless films and TV shows over the years.

Bourdain loved Musso & Frank and dropped by whenever he was in town. So I texted to ask if he would consider writing a blurb for the book’s back cover.

“Sure, when do you need it?” he texted back.

I told him the deadline. It was a couple of months away. I waited. And waited. The book was ready to go to the printer.

Then came word that Bourdain had died. I was as shocked by the news as everyone else. And I figured that was that as far as the cover blurb went.

A couple of weeks later I got an email from Bourdain’s agent. She said she’d been going through his correspondence and found a note he was planning to send me—a few words to express his fondness for Musso & Frank.

They made it on the back cover.

***

Like I said, he was a stand-up guy.

And I think about him whenever I eat an oyster of any kind. But especially a warm-water one.

Thanks for reading. See you back here soon.

***

Now comes the part where, if you’re not already paying a little something-something to help us keep serving up nourishing words at Bob’s Diner, I ask you to do so. If you sign up for a year, it works out to about 30 cents per installment, which is about one-tenth of what a single oyster costs at a restaurant these days, no matter what kind of water they were pulled from.

So don’t be shy.

I’d also be grateful if you share this post with your friends. I don’t think they’ll hold it against you.

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Appreciate ya …