As a reverse foodie-a rudie, a gastronomically ungluedie, a don't-bother-cooking-for-that-dudie'm not exactly a target viewer for the eating-and-traveling shows. I'm happy sitting behind my stacked up cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, reading Frederick Seidel. But now and again I'm touched; an image or a moment from one of these shows will move me.
Like the sequence in Season 6, Episode 8, of Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown in which Bourdain (God rest his troubled soul) sits down with Sean Brock at a Waffle House in Charleston, South Carolina.
To set the scene: Bourdain has never been to a Waffle House before. Brock, by contrast, a southern chef in a baseball сар, is a lifelong connoisseur not just of the food that golden-griddled, all-forgiving food; that eternal breakfast, mystically charged with the democratic yellow glow of Waffle House neon-but of the openall-hours, come-all-ye-faithful, come-all-ye-fucked-up Waffle House vibe.
This was action to me, he tells Bourdain. I would see these people cooking at a pace, and cooking for people who were completely out of control, but still providing hospitality. For his guest, he has devised a tasting-menu experience, one delirious grease-load after another, and as the food hits them, the two men lose their minds.
They slump and surrender and dissolve into a single namelessly buzzing poetic orality: Patty melt! Augh... Mmmm... Come on... That's not insanely delicious?... That's not insanely delicious? Ooohhh... God damn.
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