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Dateline: Commonwealth Club By SFPFS member Dianne Jacob At the Commonwealth Club bathroom, I notice a woman applying copious amounts of blush to her cleavage with a feathery brush. It was a harbinger of what was to come. Antony Bourdain was in town last week, flogging his new book. Standing at a podium in the classic Marlon Brando jeans, t-shirt and a respectable low-key blazer, he immediately dropped all pretense of being a famous guy and blasted the Food Network, the hand that feeds him, for hiring people no one’s ever heard of to do cooking shows while canceling Molto Mario and Sara Moulton. Yes, I thought. Who the heck was Rachel Ray before she came to the Food Network? I heard that she did cooking demonstrations in a department store. He talked about his new life that emerged after writing Kitchen Confidential, where he travels all over the world and eats strange things people from indigenous cultures cook for him. He loves their sense of pride, the way they present the food as a form of their identity and culture, and the community that evolves when they eat and drink together. He always eats whatever it is and admits to making venomous remarks about vegetarians and vegans in the past. There were many references to consuming plenty of alcohol. The worst part, he said, is when he returns for another feast, and the cooks try to gross him out. “What, penis again?” he giggles. He rolls his eyes, but you can tell that he loves it. The questions, fielded by Grace Ann Walden, tapped into personal territory quickly. What is his ultimate meal? Sushi. What music does he listen to when he’s cooking? The Ramones. How does he keep his boyish figure? Cigarettes. What food is an aphrodisiac to him? Alcohol. And then he sounded like a normal guy. He said that drinking enabled him to think things like, “Who’s that cute girl over there. Do you think she likes me?” Do I think she likes him? Hell, the whole audience raged with hormones. Once he finished his talk a sea of women surged towards the podium. I had already purchased his new book, The Nasty Bits, and sat two rows from the front, so I got up there quickly. The woman in front of me in line, in her 60’s but well turned out with spiky short white hair, introduced herself to him as “your future wife.” I couldn’t top that. But I didn’t want to. I showed him the cover of my book with his endorsement on it, and held out my hand to thank him for his generosity. He nodded but I’m not sure if he comprehended. His eyes had that wild look horses have when they’re about to be captured. The line of people included retired matrons who probably attended every Commonwealth lunchtime event, and a few men, mostly chefs, including a balding guy in a kilt and white t-shirt who had snapped pictures earlier while standing on a chair. They waited with books in their arms, and the line snaked along the podium, down the length of the room, and out the hall. Later, I stood outside the building’s entrance with a friend and chatted as we tried to absorb his talk. Towards the end, Bourdain emerged to smoke a cigarette. He looked wound up, like he had had a great time. He nodded at us as my friend leaned towards him and told him how much she had enjoyed his talk, but then we left him alone. How had he managed to escape those women? Where was his handler? Then I remembered the email of the handler I used to contact him about endorsing my book. Grlbitch. Perhaps that’s what it takes to keep the fans at bay. Dianne Jacob is the author of Will Write for Food: The Complete Guide to Writing Cookbooks, Restaurant Reviews, Articles, Memoir, Fiction, and More (Marlowe & Co./Avalon). See www.diannej.com.
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