Recap Anthony Bourdain at Temple Hoyne Buell Theatre

On record for having shit on the city of Denver and its cuisine while on a 2002 book tour, Food Jesus Anthony Bourdain accepted a “Fork To The City” from Mayor John Hickenlooper last Wednesday night as though it were an olive branch. Apology here; singing of praise for hot dog vendor Biker Jim’s (Arapahoe and 16th Street) there; quick shout-out to delicious Colorado beer and, just like that, all lingering resentment was gone.

Placation now aside, Bourdain launched into his lecture set explaining that he was essentially at a crossroads in his life: Scripps Howard, parent company of the Food Network, recently purchased the Travel Channel, home to Bourdain’s Emmy-nominated program No Reservations. As someone who has spent his career crucifying the Food Network and everything it stands for, Bourdain wondered aloud if they would even retain him.

Empty conjecture—the man is The Beatles of food writing—but it made his opening pot-shots at the network’s personality all the more hilarious. “Guy Fieri, you’re 40-years-old,” he quipped. “Take the fucking sunglasses off the back of your head.”

But what of actually facing some of the Food Network’s stars, like the time he met Sandra Lee at a film première? “I talk a lot of shit,” he admitted. “I write a lot of shit. But when confronted by the beast itself? Pussy. It’s Sandra Lee’s world; I just live in it.”

Like the coolest college professor you ever had, Bourdain meandered seamlessly from topic to topic—Top Chef, the proliferations of shitty chain restaurants—occasionally glancing at his notes behind the lectern, but for the most part sounding confidant and unrehearsed. His take on au currant foodie buzz topics was entirely refreshing: “My point of view has always been as a chef. I’m in the pleasure business. I don’t care where it came from—is it the best tasting tomato?”

The wealth of such high-quality ingredients, the growth and viability of local farming is a beautiful thing, Bourdain opined, but cooking is about transformation. Inside the soul of every good cook, he said, is a Chinese guy scrambling to make something delicious out of all the “squiggly bits.” If we lose that, Bourdain argued, we’re worse off for it.

He concluded with a few travel tips for avoiding ugly Americanism—never ask the concierge where to eat, observe local customs, dress nice, be polite—and then he opened the floor to audience questions, wherein Bourdain Nation lost its mind. Some nearly seized with hysteria, others name-dropped and invited him to their restaurants. Clever questions did emerge, offering insights such as how Bourdain would like to be reincarnated as Bootsy Collins, and although the writer himself worships Hunter S. Thompson, Bourdain views him as a cautionary tale, a figure he would never like to become.

A bearded service-industry hand shot up and asked Bourdain if he wanted to go drinking at dive bars with him. He declined, explaining how he’s a dad now; the last thing he would ever want was for his little girl to have to explain the photo of daddy in a magazine taking a body shot off some trollop. “I’m distinguished like a motherfucker,” Bourdain said with a laugh. “I’m trying to keep it that way.”