Anthony Bourdain’s boeuf bourguignon offers the gift of time and patience
As I browned small hunks of beef in a Dutch oven, the heat rising from the cast-iron pot felt good against my chest and face.
I was trying to focus on the heat because, to be honest, I find browning cubes of meat incredibly tedious: the frequent flipping, one by one, until all sides have browned, their outer edges turning ever so crusty. My tedium was compounded by a challenge I decided to take while cooking Anthony Bourdain’s famous boeuf bourguignon: I would not pick up my phone to check texts, emails, Slacks, WhatsApp messages and the countless social media platforms that have seemingly, over the years, come to replace my inner life. I would use it only to take the occasional photo during the prep and long braise.
Winter came early this year. The shortened days, the limited sunlight, the lack of human interaction as we huddle in our homes have frequently led me to seek the cold comfort of my phone, its pixilated glow too often replacing the warmth of another person’s voice. I really needed to create some “fruitful friction,” a term I first encountered in Brittany Shammas’s story about her month-long detox from her smartphone.
As Shammas explains in her piece, she had to sign an offline “pledge” that read, in part: “We trade dopamine for daylight, doom scrolls for detours, pixels for paper maps. Here’s to boredom, to wrong turns, to fruitful friction. To shared growth, spontaneous encounters, and Life beyond the screen.”
For the holiday season, I was going to give myself the gift of boredom. Not for a month. God, no. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. I just wanted to see how I would fill the empty spaces of a three- to four-hour cook and cleanup.
Four hours is a long time for a mind to wander free, without a constant stream of ready-made stimulation to light up its brain pan. As I was turning pieces of meat, or just stirring the pot to make sure the beef wouldn’t scorch, I found myself thinking of my parents, both long gone from this world. I was struck by how this simple act of cooking channeled behaviors that they had, consciously or not, passed down to me.
From my mother, Kay, a model in her youth, I felt this overwhelming urge to be seen — in the ways that most of us seek attention in the 21st century: by placing something on social media. Years of posting videos and photos of my kitchen projects have created this reflexive doppelgänger, someone practically unable to cook without the observing eye of an audience. Its absence here was palpable. (I must confess: I did cave at one point and publish a story on Instagram featuring a photo of my recipe prep.)
From my father, Larry, a civil engineer known for his attention to every detail, I fussed over my knife skills, making sure the sliced onions in Bourdain’s recipe were as thin as he recommended and the meat was cubed into neat little squares. These desires — for attention, for perfection — have their darker impulses, but in this moment, I just felt a generational connection, free of judgment, full of longing for another chance to connect with my folks.
My mind eventually made its way to the author of this recipe, annually among the most-read in The Washington Post’s archives of more than 10,000. I recalled my frustration when I first prepared the dish, which Bourdain published in his “Les Halles Cookbook” in 2004, four years after “Kitchen Confidential” had shined a light on this journeyman chef in New York’s mid-level dining scene. His recipe produces a terrific stew, but you can unlock an even better one, with more depth of flavor, if you add, as Bourdain suggests, a couple of heaping tablespoons of demi-glace to the braising liquid. The problem is, Bourdain doesn’t list this concentrated brown sauce among the ingredients, which I always use as a shopping list. He mentions demi-glace only in the headnote and cooking instructions. So I didn’t buy any. I swore I would never make that mistake again.
As Bourdain became a source for stories and columns over the years, I never mentioned this tiny recipe-writing hiccup to him. I never mentioned it in person when we broke bread together or when I appeared on his “No Reservations” episode on Washington. I never mentioned it as he became one of the biggest celebrities on Earth. I’m pretty sure he would have told me to get over it.
In the years since his death by suicide, I have consumed the many books, documentaries and essays about Bourdain. I’ve learned that he could be cruel, and he could be dismissive of his devoted colleagues. But he could also be kind. He could be generous with his time, money and insights. As I watched my stew simmer, spoon ready to give it another stir, I remembered the night I landed in Dallas in late 2014 and asked Bourdain for a quote on a story I was reporting about a contentious food critic. He declined to speak on the record, but he gave me advice on who to talk to — and who to avoid in the Big D. He tried to steer me away from one chef in particular. “He’s very charming,” Bourdain wrote via DM. “Like Ted Bundy.”
That’s the thing about Bourdain: He had this ability to make you think that he could see through you, that he could see the things that you tried to carefully conceal. This dyspeptic trait could be hilarious if it were directed at others, like, say, Alan Richman, the oft-decorated food writer. But it may have also been little more than a cheap deflection, a way to avoid the hard work of analyzing his own behavior. Consider the words that Tom Vitale, a producer and director who worked for years with Bourdain, committed to page in his engrossing memoir, “In the Weeds”:
“Looking back, I didn’t see the warning signs, although there were some. It was less about his musings on death, karma and spirituality, and more so his attempts to show me that he cared. Repeated requests to hang out are what stand out most. Tony’s ability to hide his fears behind his dark humor, combined with his near unflappable facade of strength and impenetrability, prevented me from seeing these requests for what — in hindsight — I realized they were: the actions of someone lonely and depressed, trying his best to come to terms with himself.”
I’m three years older than Bourdain was when he died, and I can confirm that life is about coming to terms with yourself. The things you said that you can’t take back. The cruelties inflicted upon you and that you, in turn, inflicted on others. The jealousies. The insecurities. The fears. The inability to love when love was called for. These are the things we must grapple with, no matter who we are or how high up the food chain we climb. These are the things that we often run from when we pick up our phones.
Making a stew doesn’t change any of this. But it can provide a space for solitude where you can reintroduce yourself to a quality that hides inside any long, boring and tedious act, and that is patience. Patience, I think, is a subset of acceptance, and acceptance is in short supply right now, for reasons both good and bad. This is one truth I know: The more I accept my imperfections, past and present, the more I accept those around me. To do otherwise is to deny our humanity.
I was reminded of my own foibles while prepping the stew. I realized that, once again, I had forgotten to buy the demi-glace. At first, I was mad at myself. Minutes later, I was laughing at the irony of it all. This is the lesson that Anthony Bourdain’s boeuf bourguignon taught me on a cold morning in December: The joy we seek during the holidays can often be accessed with the simple act of acceptance.
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Anthony Bourdain’s Boeuf Bourguignon
2 pound boneless beef shoulder or neck (chuck), cut into 1½-inch pieces
Fine salt
Freshly ground black pepper
4 tablespoons olive oil, divided, plus more as needed
4 medium yellow onions (2 pounds), halved and thinly sliced
2 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 cup dry red wine, such as pinot noir, preferably from Burgundy
6 medium carrots, scrubbed and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 garlic clove
1 bouquet garni (a tied bundle of herbs; typically thyme, bay and parsley)
1½ cups water, plus more as needed
2 tablespoons demi-glace (optional)*
Chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley, for garnish
Thoroughly pat the meat dry, and generously season it with salt and pepper. Set a large plate near your workspace.
In a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottomed pot over medium-high heat, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil until shimmering. Working in batches to avoid overcrowding, sear the meat until well browned all over, then transfer to the prepared plate. (Don’t move the meat too much while searing, so it properly browns. If you try to cook too much meat at once, it will steam and turn gray instead of brown. Add more oil, if the pot looks dry.)
Reduce the heat to medium and add the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to the pot. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and golden, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle the flour on top and cook, stirring occasionally, until thickened, 4 to 5 minutes. Add the wine and bring to a boil, scraping up all the browned bits (fond) off the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon.
Return the meat and its accumulated juices to the pot, and add the carrots, garlic and bouquet garni. Add the water and demi-glace, if using, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer, uncovered, skimming off any foam or oil that might accumulate on the surface, until the meat is tender, 2 to 2½ hours. Check on the stew every 15 to 20 minutes, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pot to prevent scorching or sticking. As you check on the stew, continue adding ¼ cup to ½ cup of water, as needed, up to 2½ to 3 cups total — to ensure there is enough liquid to cook down and concentrate. If the stew begins to stick, reduce the heat to low. The onions should fall apart, creating a thick, rich sauce that coats the meat.
Remove from the heat, taste, and season with more salt, if desired. (Discard the bouquet garni.) Divide among shallow bowls, garnish with parsley and serve.
Substitutions: For yellow onions, use white onions or shallots.
Anthony Bourdain’s take on the classic dish of beef braised in red wine requires time, but no complicated ingredients or techniques. The reward: a satisfying, hearty stew in which the tender meat and rich, silken sauce are the stars.
6 to 8 servings
Storage: Refrigerate for up to 4 days, or freeze for up to 3 months. Defrost in the refrigerator or microwave, and finish heating on the stovetop.
Make ahead: For best flavor, this dish should be made 1 day in advance.
*Where to buy: Demi-glace, a concentrated sauce typically made with a meat stock and sometimes wine, can be found in the soup aisle of well-stocked supermarkets and at butcher shops.
Nutrition | Per serving, based on 8: 414 calories, 12g carbohydrates, 81mg cholesterol, 29g fat, 2g fiber, 21g protein, 10g saturated fat, 129mg sodium, 5g sugar
— Adapted from “Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles Cookbook” by Anthony Bourdain with José de Meirelles and Philip Lajaunie (Bloomsbury USA, 2004).