“Have dinner at a restaurant in your own neighborhood tonight. Order the sauce you’ve never tasted.

Have a cold beer at four in the afternoon in an empty bar.

Go somewhere you’ve never been.

Listen to a stranger who has nothing in common with you. Order a steak medium‑rare. Try an oyster.

Order a Negroni. Order two. Open yourself to a world you don’t understand or don’t agree with the person sitting beside you—but share a drink with them even if you’ve never met.

Eat and drink slowly. Tip your server generously.

Tend to your friends. Check everything for yourself.

Enjoy the ride.”

Sorry to disappoint the enthusiasts, but no one has ever managed to prove this thread of fine advice came from Anthony Bourdain’s pen. You won’t find it in his memoirs or autobiographies. It’s nowhere in Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly (2000), nor in Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook (2010), its follow‑up. It’s absent from his essays and culinary reflections—The Nasty Bits (2006), A Cook’s Tour (2001)—and from his travel‑and‑culture books, No Reservations: Around the World on an Empty Stomach (2007) or Parts Unknown: A Field Guide to the World of Food and Drink (2014).

In his 2004 cookbook, Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles Cookbook, he did write something faintly similar after detailing a recipe: “Have a drink. Relax. Dress for company.  Smoke a joint. Your work is pretty much done.”

But in his novels—Bone in the Throat and Gone Bamboo—nothing of the sort appears.

Variations of the quote have gone viral in recent years, especially versions that highlight the idea of sitting down with people you disagree with: “Listen to someone you think you may have nothing in common with.” Or this more expansive one: “Be open to a world where you may not understand or agree with the person next to you, but have a drink with them anyway.”

Quote detectives and apostles of the great presenter traced an early version to a film blog, in a review of Roadrunner: A Film about Anthony Bourdain. There, one finds this layered comment:

“The best one can say of Neville’s compact, dense yet feather‑light achievement is that it sings, it stings, and it lives up to memories of those vigorous Bourdain passages, like the immortal: Have dinner at a local restaurant tonight. Order the creamy sauce. Have a cold beer at four in the afternoon in a mostly empty bar. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Listen to someone you think you have nothing in common with. Order the steak rare. Eat an oyster. Order a Negroni. Order two. Open yourself to a world where you may not understand or agree with the person beside you, but have a drink with them anyway. Eat slowly. Tip big. Tend to your friends. Tend to yourself. Enjoy the ride.”

Nobody knows where that blogger got the quote; it doesn’t belong to the film. On June 27 of that same year it pops up in a post by someone named Joe (SoCal) on the Wooden Boat Forum, as a tribute—but not attributed to Bourdain.

No matter. The words are genuinely charming, apocryphal or not. They sound like Bourdain, a man who indeed considered the Negroni his favorite cocktail—“the perfect drink.” Though he wasn’t particularly fond of gin, Campari, or vermouth individually, he swore that together, with a twist of orange, they “worked”: “The first sip is confusing and not particularly pleasant. But man, it grows on you.” And as the quote wisely suggests, Bourdain himself warned never to go beyond two Negronis—after the third, he quipped, you might well ask: “And who the hell are you?”

By the time Bourdain took his own life, I was living in the United States. I confess it hurt. His food‑and‑travel series around the globe had enchanted me. I wanted to be what he was. A life of luxury—one not easy to come by—and he relinquished it.

In the winter of ’22, February or March, I found myself in Saint Louis, Missouri, in a dark bar flecked with golden flashes refracted through dozens and dozens of glasses. I thought of Bourdain and ordered my first Negroni. I hated it. Absolutely hated it. My body longed instead for a Santiago 11 and a Camel Crush Menthol. Pearls before swine.

And now I see an ad trying to sell me one in a can. An English product, so I won’t even see it in stores. Not that I like bottled cocktails. Truth is, I barely like cocktails at all. Perhaps a rustic Caribbean bloody mary—the cubanito from the Cinecittà bar—and if there’s nothing else, a mojito I never finish. I don’t enjoy drinking anymore, except when I’m with an old friend.

My own advice—were I some bargain‑bin Tony—would be this:

Don’t let advertising bait you. Whatever it offers, you don’t need it. And if your body twists with temptation, do your homework, cross‑check, ask your friends. You’ll eventually see you didn’t need it at all. Remember that almost all the money you’ll earn in your life will be spent on things that won’t make you happy. Happiness, for what it’s worth, is eating and drinking whatever you can catch with your own claws. And having a dog.

Other authentic pieces of advice from Anthony Bourdain:

If you’re in your twenties, in good shape, hungry to learn and to be better—travel as far and as much as you can. Sleep on floors if you have to. Discover how others live. Learn to cook and eat from them wherever you go.

Nothing wonderful happens if your Paris itinerary is crammed only with the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower.

Dress smartly for airport security. Don’t be the one who holds up the line fumbling with chains, belts, watches, and a soda bottle they won’t let through. Wear shoes that slip on and off easily.

Everywhere in the world, people appreciate when you show gratitude for their food. I can’t stress enough how vital this is for any bond you forge abroad. Smile, look pleased, even if you don’t love it. If you do, show it—say something, make a gesture.

Get up early and visit the market. It’s a fast track into the culture, and you’ll find local dishes served hot to the market workers.

Never show fury, impatience, or frustration. In Europe it rarely helps. In Asia it’s a sign of weakness. Keep your zen composure until you can’t anymore.

Travel isn’t always pretty or comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes your heart breaks. That’s okay. The journey changes you; it leaves marks on your memory and your heart.

Your body is not a temple—it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.

Good food and good eating are about taking risks.

As you move through life and the world, things shift ever so slightly; you leave marks, however small. And in return, life and travel leave their marks on you.