By: Tommy Druen
Guest Columnist
We are all shaped by the people we watch. Some leave a mark intentionally. Others—like the man I encountered one rainy afternoon in 2006—leave one without ever knowing we exist.
A thunderstorm rolled in while my wife and I were at the beach. The sky turned charcoal, the waves grew choppy, and I found myself trapped indoors with little to do. Flipping through channels, I landed on the Travel Channel and encountered a wiry, sharp-tongued chef named Anthony Bourdain.
I was captivated immediately.
Here was a man who traveled the globe not in search of five-star luxury, but in pursuit of authenticity. He ate fermented shark in Iceland, roasted pigeon in Egypt, and balut—that controversial fetal duck delicacy from the Philippines. But what fascinated me most wasn’t the shock value of the cuisine—it was the culture surrounding it. The stories. The people. The pride served alongside every plate. Through him, I traveled vicariously for years and came to understand that food is rarely just food. It is history, identity, and community made tangible.
That Christmas, my wife gave me a copy of Kitchen Confidential, Bourdain’s 2000 memoir exposing the underbelly of New York’s restaurant scene. Having never worked so much as a fast-food shift, I found myself immersed in a world both gritty and strangely beautiful. Kitchens, I learned, weren’t simply places where meals were assembled. They were ecosystems built on hierarchy, discipline, and a relentless pursuit of excellence—as well as an unhealthy amount of stimulants.
I emerged with three practical lessons that reached far beyond the kitchen:
First, never order the Monday special. There’s no telling how long it’s been sitting around.
Second, pay attention to your server’s body language. A server’s genuine enthusiasm reveals whether a kitchen cares. Indifference reveals indifference.
And third, the smaller the menu, the more optimistic I become.
That last point seems counterintuitive. After all, wouldn’t more options increase the odds of finding something I’d enjoy? Perhaps. But more options also increase the likelihood that nothing is done exceptionally well. My experience has taught me this: the more sprawling and diverse the offerings, the less likely any single dish has been perfected. But walk into a place that offers two or three entrées—prepared the same way every night—and you can rest reasonably assured they’ve mastered them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t remain in business for long.
That principle extends far beyond restaurants.
We all know the phrase “jack of all trades, master of none.” It’s not the harshest of criticisms, but it’s hardly a compliment either. And yet modern life seems determined to push us in precisely that direction.
We’re expected to simultaneously be exceptional spouses, parents, children, employees, volunteers, and informed citizens. We’re shamed if we haven’t seen the award-winning film, formed a thoughtful opinion on international conflicts, responded to every email within the hour, exercised daily, hydrated properly, and somehow found time for self-care in the margins.
For all the conveniences technology has added to our lifetimes, the result hasn’t been leisure—it’s been expectation. Our grandparents would have seen our lives as chaos masquerading as productivity. But they had something we’ve surrendered: the right to down time. To call a day complete. To let something remain undone.
Our grandparents had the same twenty-four hours we do. The clock hasn’t changed. So why do we feel so stretched? So fragmented? So perpetually behind?
Perhaps it’s because we’ve allowed our menus to become too large. We’ve tried to offer everything—to everyone—at all times. Mastery requires focus. Deep focus. The kind that demands saying no to almost everything so you can say yes—fully, deeply—to a few things that matter.
Maybe the better path forward isn’t to expand our offerings, but to refine them. Choose two or three things that matter most. Invest there. Perfect those dishes. A well-crafted life, like a well-crafted menu, never apologizes for what it doesn’t offer. It triumphs because of what it does.
