July 17, 2010

Excerpt from: Medium Raw, A Bloody Valentine To The World of Food and The People Who Cook

by Anthony Bourdain

Selling Out, cont'd

Shortly after that, two unimpressive looking men walked into Les Halles and asked me if I'd be interested in making television. They had Kitchen Confidential in mind, no doubt, a property I had already sold off to Hollywood (to end up as a VERY short lived sit-com). Undaunted by this news, they expressed interest when I told them I'd be unlikely to find time in any case—as I was about to embark on a world wide bounce to fulfill my childhood fantasies of the exotic East and elsewhere.

I have to tell you that even at this early point, still wearing my kitchen whites, I was already dubious of anyone who claimed to be offering a TV deal. I had very quickly learned that when TV or movie people tell you "we're all big fans over here" or "we're very excited about this project," it usually means nothing more than that they're planning on paying for lunch. I was even more skeptical when they mentioned Food Network as a prime candidate for acquiring this round the world project. This notion alone suggested these two goofs had no idea what they were talking about and no juice with anybody. I'd been savagely trashing the Food Network's principle earners for some time—it was already shtick, part of a stand-up bit that would live on long after I stopped performing it. The fact that these two would even suggest Food Network hinted at problems far beyond the usual lack of imagination. The word "delusional" came to mind.

When, a week later, they called to tell me they'd set up a meeting, I was annoyed. Actively pissed off. No good would come of this. This, I was certain, was a waste of fucking time. I bothered to neither shave nor shower for the meeting.

I ended up with a show, titled, like the book, A Cook's Tour. Something that necessarily and despite our best efforts, quickly evolved into a sort of gonzo-travelogue of vérité footage and thrown together voice-overs. I had assumed my involvement with television would last no longer than the time it took me to write the book. And yet, amazingly enough, the show was picked up for a second season. Even more incredibly, the network, from the beginning, let me do pretty much whatever the fuck I wanted—allowing me to take the show anywhere I pleased, smoke on camera, curse as I needed—and even more remarkably, along with the camera people/field producers who I became increasingly close to over many miles and many months of traveling together—tell stories any way I cared to—making, as it turned out, pretty good television.

I have to admit, I grew to like this life—roaming the globe in search of nothing more than food and kicks. I also came to enjoy the new-to-me process of telling stories with the help of an all new chest of toys: cameras, editing boards, sound editing—and really creative professionals who knew how to use them. I like making things. And I like telling stories. I like going to Asia. And this TV gig allowed me to do all of those things

I got sucked in—not by fame, or money (of which there was precious little). I'd long ago had all the cocaine I'd ever wanted. No sports car was ever going to cure my ills. I became seduced by the world—and the freedom that television had given me—to travel it as I wished. I was also drunk on a new and exciting power: to manipulate images and sound in order to tell stories—to make audiences feel about places I'd been the way I wanted them to feel. I was increasingly proud of some of the episodes me and my married partners, camera people/producers Chris Collins and Lydia Tenaglia, were making—and how we were making them. I began to appreciate what editors and sound mixers and post production people can do. Making TV was becoming … fun, and in more than a few cases, actually creatively satisfying.

I wrote the book and yet continued filming. The tail now wagged the dog. I was hooked on travel, on seeing the world, and on the terms I was seeing it. Simply put? I didn't want to share. The world had become, on one hand, a much bigger place, but contracted at the same time. Like a lot of travelers, I started to turn inward from the view out the window, started to see what was going on out there through an ever narrower lens. When I'd set out, I'd see a sunset or a temple and want, instinctively, to turn to my right or to my left and say to somebody, anybody, "Isn't that a magnificent sunset?"

That impulse quickly faded. I felt proprietary about the world. I became selfish. That sunset was mine.

I was on the road for the better part of two years, during which time everything in my life changed. I stopped working as a chef—a job whose daily routines had always been the only thing between me and chaos. My marriage began to fall apart.

Sitting down in the Food Network's corporate offices back in New York, I was a guy with very different priorities than the ones I'd left my kitchen with. For better or worse, I now had the ludicrous notion that this television thing could be "good" and even, occasionally, "important."

On a recent book tour in Spain, I'd been introduced to Ferran Adria—and amazingly, he'd agreed to allow us to shoot him in his workshop "taller" and in his nearly impossible to reserve restaurant, El Bulli. Adria was already the most important and controversial chef on the planet—and his restaurant the most sought after reservation. More significantly, no one to date had ever had access to what he had agreed to show me and my crew:. Full access to his creative process, to him, his chefs, his favorite restaurants, his inspirations—and finally—the ability to eat and film the entire El Bulli tasting menu in the kitchen with Adria himself. It had never been done—nor has it since as far as I know.

But while I was away, something had happened.