Anthony Bourdain is, without a doubt, my favourite non-fiction writer. “Kitchen Confidential” I have always regarded as a twentieth century “Down and Out in Paris and London,” “A Cook’s Tour” inspired me to travel and eat parts of the world I hadn’t seen or tasted before and “The Nasty Bits” was laugh-out-loud, snappy and sardonic culinary commentary. I even love Bourdain’s fiction offerings. “Bone in the Throat” is a criminally underrated slice of New York noir, Elmore Leonard in the kitchen if you like. So to say that I had high expectations of “Medium Raw” would be a bit of an understatement. I wouldn’t say I was entirely disappointed, there is a lot to love here, about which, more later, but two chapters in and Bourdain’s reconsidering his previous misgivings about “selling out” and you realise that this is a different Bourdain we’re dealing with. There is still a huge passion for his subject, the descriptions of some of the great meals he has eaten are, to use his own words, pure “food porn.” There is still a huge amount of respect for his heroes in the food industry and a respectable amount of verbal assault and battery for the villains but, on the whole, the Bourdain writing here is a much more measured, fair and dare I say reasonable individual. There is a huge amount of self doubt here too, not only in his cooking skills but as a food writer and critic to which I want to say “Anthony, dude, your prose is harsh, unapologetic, bloody and awash in a sea of narcotics, it’s SO GOOD. It makes me want to write. From a social commentary point of view, for me you’re a twentieth century Orwell.” Anyway, the things to love, as I previously mentioned, are many. The opening feast is almost as good an opening as the seal pup consumption that opened “The Nasty Bits.” The use of black propaganda on his daughter against McDonalds was genius, I laughed my pants off and “Alan Richman is a Douchebag” has to be in the running for Chapter Title of the Year Award. If you’re already a Bourdain fan, read this book, if you’re new to Bourdain and you love good food, drink, travel and angry prose (anyone who, like me, only reads the Sunday Times for AA Gill’s food column, for example,) read all his books, including the fiction, you’re missing out.