The sixth anniversary of Anthony Bourdain’s death recently caused me to take down my tattered copy of Kitchen Confidential from the shelf. The word “iconic” is over-bandied, but that cover image is as close as you are going to get to a timeless visual synecdoche of the hospitality industry. Most people, understandably, are affected by the big knives tucked into the belts, the hard-ass swagger and wiry languor of the boys in the picture. Me? I can smell the wall they’re leaning on.
It’s not easy to describe, if you’ve not experienced it, and it will be much worse for you once I’ve tried, but it’s a coarse blend of urine, bin juice, sweat and damp cigarette butts. That picture is taken in a place that exists in every single restaurant, termed in the demotic, “out by the bins”.
Sure, you can eat at a restaurant with a fashionably open kitchen or at the counter — always the best seat in the house. These arrangements are intended so you can experience the fire and knives of service. Liminal, involving, but sanitised.