I am sick and tired of writing about Anthony Bourdain

OK, OK, but this is the last one, I promise. After hunting at a string of libraries, I finally found a copy of Bourdain's breakthrough memoir at a Berkeley used bookstore for about $5, and figured I might as well polish off his foodie trilogy in one fell swoop. I'm immeasurably glad I did.

This is distinct from his other two in its immediacy, its urgency, and its cohesiveness. Where A Cook's Tour feels a bit in thrall to its companion TV program (and thus, a little paint-by-numbers, for all that it's remarkably well-done) and where The Nasty Bits takes a scattershot approach to compiling an anthology of writing, Kitchen Confidential is on two missions: letting you know how Anthony Bourdain turned around a trainwreck-on-fire life to become a relatively respectable chef, and letting you know how the restaurant world operates.

It's straightforward, no-bullshit writing, pretty typical for Bourdain, but there's a drive and focus to this that his other books lack. It's incredibly personal and lean, and only after Bourdain has walked us through his several levels of introduction to food does he back up and start to expand his universe by detailing his colleagues and the mechanics of running terrible, decent, and (eventually) high-end restaurants. While he takes a brief detour near the end to look at how a classier, serene kitchen works (which he takes in with a good dose of humility and astonishment), the bulk of this is from the heart, from experience, and isn't afraid to inform us that Bourdain will, if you order a steak well-done, get the worst cut of meat out of his kitchen by putting it on your plate.

It's easy to see why this exploded his career and made him a personality (some of the chapters on The Business, particularly an early one on "things you should know when you go to a restaurant" that unfolds the incessantly-repeated "don't order fish on a Monday" mantra, feel like insertions at the publisher's request) but the book doesn't fall prey to a tell-all expose syndrome at the expense of its author's personality, or at the expense of an obvious affection for the holy grail of Food (or Bourdain's affection for his coworkers and friends accumulated and cast off over the years).

And with that, I'm done writing about Anthony God Dammit Bourdain. Next up: a book about wrenches? Maybe a nice, palate-cleansing Curious George graphic novel? A credit card statement? THE WORLD IS AN OYSTER.