Fuck You: Anthony Bourdain

That’s right, I said it, and I stand by it. I have a bone to pick with Anthony Bourdain. Down to the marrow. What could I possibly have against the King of Food himself? I can’t stop being attracted to line cooks, and it's all his fault. I’m not talking about the twenty-something, working a summer job flipping burgers. I mean a grown-ass alcoholic man.

Much like the perfect fried mortadella sandwich, a good chef should be hot, greasy, and make you feel like shit. Tony? That sick-son-of-a-bitch normalized being a workaholic and made it insanely sexy. Don’t have time for me? No worries, babe, I know you're chasing your dream of working in a hot hell hole for the rest of your life.

Jeremy Allen White can sit his shiny ass down. I need someone with burnt off fingerprints, and a sense of desperation. I need to be so out of a man’s league that he has no choice but to butter me up with not only love-bombing, but also literally butter. I’m like Scarlett Johansson in “Chef,” just drooling at the thought of a mid-at-best man, dishing me up something decadent to sink my teeth into.

Men watch “Parts Unknown” or “Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations,” and they take notes, but only a true few have what it takes to keep up with Tony. Specifically, the heavy drinking parts.

However, the joie de vivre that Anthony has is much like a good au jus. Simmering for a long time, stewing in on itself, building depth and flavor. It just can’t be rushed. Which is why (hear me out) I’ve started to find the sous chef at my work inexplicably attractive.

Maybe he just makes good spaghetti aglio e, maybe it’s because he’s good in bed. What I do know is that I can’t stop thinking about a forty-five-year-old man. So, fuck you, Anthony Bourdain.