The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own. – Willa Cather
I can't call him Tony because I never met him. He is Anthony to me. I only know him from his show, Parts Unknown. I never read Kitchen Confidential, which is now next on my list. Yet I felt like he was my friend.
His death left us all in shock and horror. It felt like such a betrayal. He was this profane Buddha. He was Walt Whitman. He brought us together with the elegant basics: good food and good company. He taught us that we are all one behind our races, our languages, our cultures, our palates. He was giving and generous. He listened. He was a citizen of the world, welcome at every table. Cultural differences added spice to our cuisines. I'm sure he'd agree that we should all intermarry but keep our ethnic foods.
His grisly suicide seemed so outside the realm of possibility. But maybe not. The secret is, character always plays true. He had the talent, and discipline, to follow his passion and become a master chef. And yet, something always lurked back there.
