I had a plan, a plan much more than a dream, that I would bump into Anthony Bourdain as he was coming into some local eatery somewhere in the world, and I would be able to turn to him and casually ask, “Have you eaten at X in Madrid?” or Berlin, or Stockholm, or wherever.

He’d pop his eyebrows up, we’d shake hands, and he’d write down somewhere the dive I recommended. (I often think it’d be this place in La Latina, but I can’t remember the name, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find the ancient owners had passed). I’d continue on my way out of the place, and he and his crew would push on in.

Then someday after that, I’d write something that was worthy of his attention, and he’d be like, “Hey! That’s that kid with the great tapas/bier haus/meatball recommendation!” And we’d grab lunch in Vietnam somewhere he loved, or had heard about, and we’d talk.

And now he’s dead, and the dream with him.