I learned to recognize failure. - Anthony Bourdain

Male, female, gay, straight, legal, illegal, country of origin — who cares? You can either cook an omelet or you can’t. You can either cook five hundred omelets in three hours — like you said you could, and like the job requires — or you can’t. There’s no lying in the kitchen. The restaurant kitchen may indeed be the last, glorious meritocracy — where anybody with the skills and the heart is welcomed. But if you’re old, or out of shape — or were never really certain about your chosen path in the first place — then you will surely and quickly be removed. Like a large organism’s natural antibodies fighting off an invading strain of bacteria, the life will slowly push you out or kill you off. Thus it is. Thus it shall always be. The ideal progression for a nascent culinary career would be to, first, take a jump straight into the deep end of the pool. Long before student loans and culinary school, take the trouble to find out who you are.

Portugal was the beginning, where I began to notice the things that were missing from the average American dining experience. The large groups of people who ate together. The family element. The seemingly casual cruelty that comes with living close to your food. The fierce resistance to change – if change comes at the expense of traditionally valued dishes. I’d see this again and again, in other countries far from Portugal.

If I'm an advocate for anything, it's to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else's shoes or at least eat their food, it's a plus for everybody.

Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.