Dear Mr. Bourdain…Anthony…may I call you Tony?…okay, we’ll stick with Mr. Bourdain,

First, I understand you’re here in Boston this week, filming in Southie. I hope you and your crew are enjoying yourselves. And even though I’m at the other end of the Red Line, in Cambridge, you being in town has absolutely nothing to do with this letter.

I must admit, I have only recently become a fan. Like, about a month ago. To be honest (because you appear to be a guy who appreciates honesty)…something about you scared the shit out of me for years. Maybe it was the honesty.

But then, I was watching the premiere of Top Chef: All-Stars. And you made the comment about Spike’s dish, “Is this the craftiest motherfucker who’s ever been on the show?” (Okay, it was really more like, “Is this the craftiest mother*BLEEP*er who’s ever been on the show?” But I don’t have to censor anything.) And all of a sudden, I wanted to see and read more of what you did. I don’t know why – maybe it was the honesty. Or just your blatant bad-ass-ness.

So I started TiVo-ing No Reservations. The first episode I watched was your Holiday Potluck Special. That was when I knew I was going to enjoy you. I’m really looking forward to seeing the episode of your visit to my hometown, Buffalo, NY.

Yesterday, thanks to a Borders coupon, I acquired the updated paperback of Kitchen Confidential (I’d considered downloading the ebook, but I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be as satisfying an experience, reading you on the Kindle app on my iPod Touch), which I started reading before going to bed. I’m not even 50 pages into it, and I already have two points to comment on:

1. In the preface, when you said that the best part of cooking for a living is being part of a subculture, that really resonated with me. Every thing you said about it reminded me of why I love doing theatre.

2. If you (or someone on your payroll) have perused this blog at all, you know that I’m a single, lonely, unemployed gal who could stand to lose a few pounds (okay, more than a few. But that’s not the point). And if you haven’t perused this blog, well, now you know that about me (but you really should peruse the blog. I’m serious about wanting you as my landlord – if you ever buy rental property in the Boston area and need a tenant, let me know).

So it’s late, I’m alone/lonely, and kinda hungry (dinner didn’t exactly happen, thanks to a late grocery delivery), and reading your first couple of essays. Reading about Bobby and that bride was kinda depressing. But I was almost moved to get up for a snack after reading about “cheesy, rich, Normandy butter…slathered on baguettes and dipped in bitter hot chocolate.”

This afternoon I made a stop at Whole Foods. And what finds their way into my basket? A baguette. European-style butter (couldn’t afford the real stuff from Normandy). And as I already had the ingredients to make homemade hot chocolate, I found myself doing just that at 8:45 this evening. And slicing up that baguette and spreading it with butter.

Damn you, Mr. Bourdain. DAMN YOU!!!

The calories I will be inhaling from now on! The hours I will have to spend at the gym, working them off (most likely to no avail)!  The money I don’t have, being spent on butter!

Damn you. And thank you.