Woke up to the news this morning that Anthony Bourdain committed suicide in France. Bourdain carried some weight in our household. Marilyn wanted to be him when she grows up. The travel, the storytelling, the cultural exploration through the medium of food all carried strong appeal. It seemed that the man had an ideal life — but, as is so often the case, we don’t see from the outside the Black Dog ever lurking in the shadows, ready to sink his teeth deep into the soul and tear it out.
I will raise a glass and fire up a Gurkha this weekend in a salute to a Storyteller gone beyond the veil. And I’ll think of Bourdain stalking deer in the Scottish Highlands, something he said was the most demanding thing he’d ever done on camera. His visible emotion at the kill was truly moving — it was a poignant moment, not played for manipulation, but a genuine expression of the Ortega y Gasset observation that one kills in order to have hunted.