You could explain the splash by pointing to the essay’s tell-all nature, the invitation it offered into a thrillingly seedy world that had been right under everyone’s nose. The chefs cooking your meal are not wearing gloves or hairnets; the waitstaff is recycling the remnants of your bread basket; on average, you’re consuming probably a stick of butter per restaurant meal: “sauces are enriched with mellowing, emulsifying butter. Pastas are tightened with it. Meat and fish are seared with a mixture of butter and oil. Shallots and chicken are caramelized with butter. It’s the first and last thing in almost every pan: the final hit is called ‘monter au beurre.’ ” But Bourdain was much more than a whistle-blower, even at the very beginning of what would become his second, highly significant career. The aw-shucks way he sometimes told the story of writing the essay and getting it published belied the years he had spent pursuing his literary ambitions, even while working the line and maintaining a heroin addiction; in 1985, he took a workshop with the renowned editor Gordon Lish, and before he made it into The New Yorker he had published two novels, including a crime thriller, and was sitting on a novella based on his kitchen experiences.