Eating fried gator nuggets in New Orleans, LA.
Around the holidays, my grandpa would visit to sink deeper into our living room couch, like a hefty stone thrown in a lake. Beer cans kept him company.
Commercial breaks were breaks for the show, yes, but also for him—time for tobacco and more beers from the fridge.
As a kid, I paid no mind.
He was rarely in town, so when he was, it felt like he could do no wrong. Being loud and animated was his style. That was just him, I figured.
He didn’t have cable. He didn’t grow up with it either. So when he visited, it felt like he consumed it far more than the cigs and beer—surfing the same five channels, sinking deeper into the couch.
And I’d sit with him
His shows were neither cartoons nor sports. Yet, odd to me, he seemed engrossed, almost hypnotized.
The show?
It followed a man named Anthony Bourdain—a tall, slender figure with peppery white hair and a subtle, suave demeanor. He was a chef who traveled the world and explored its foods.
As a kid, I just didn’t get it. Of all the things he could watch, why this?
Fast forward to 2025: Bourdain has found a way back into my sphere through no intention of my own. I’ve zero memory of the episodes I saw, yet somehow grainy, vague clips resurface while I hop past the Travel Channel.
His book was at Barnes and Noble. I’m now three-quarters through Kitchen Confidential. My YouTube feed has somehow found full episodes of No Reservations, so I’ve got old reruns on in the background while I work.
You know, for the amount of cigarettes, alcohol, cocaine, and heroin this man did, he made for a calm, entertaining host—but I digress.
The most recent episode I watched, he explored New Orleans. One of the cooks he met was a man named Wild Bill.
What do you think a man named Wild Bill, born and raised in New Orleans, would be cooking for Bourdain?
Did you guess gator?
Wild Bill tossed up some gator nuggets in seasoning and sauces, frying those puppies over what looked like the gates of hell. Chuckling, he lowered the heat, saying he didn’t want to burn down the house as flames leapt a foot high, nearly kissing the curtains above his stove.
Bourdain loved them. Yes, they tasted like chicken.
Why am I telling you all of this?
Man, Wild Bill was so goshdarn excited, almost a childlike awe and wonder. And it didn’t feel fake, or like he was trying to put on a show, or because of Bourdain or the cameras presence.
The man smiled and looked like he genuinely loved to cook.
And for some weird reason, his childlike energy spoke to me, leading me to write this here.
Because a lot’s changed since that episode aired. It takes a hell of a lot more now to get excited for something, with all the content, noise, and news that exists.
Can we just try and be like Wild Bill for a moment?
To find something small, trivial, and only relevant to us that gets us going, gets us excited, damn near splitting at the seams with childlike wonder.
Lord knows it’ll be better for us.
Or so I think,
George
