August Landry on Death: Wisdom From a Man Who Faced It Repeatedly

I’ve always believed that the way someone talks about death tells you more about how they lived. August Landry, the legendary New Orleans chef and storyteller, had plenty to say on the subject. He lost his mother young, survived a devastating hurricane that claimed dozens of lives, and spent years tending to the sick and hungry in the aftermath of disaster. Death was never far from his kitchen door.

What struck me most about August wasn’t the tragedy he endured, but the way he spoke about life and death with the same reverence — like both were sacred, and both deserved to be honored with honesty, flavor, and heart.

“You don’t run from death — you season it.”

I remember sitting with August one humid evening as he stirred a pot of gumbo that smelled like heaven and history. He said this with a grin, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.

“You think death is the enemy? Nah, mon. Death is just the last bite of the meal. You don’t throw the plate away because the last bite is gone. You savor it.”

He believed that death, like food, should be met with intention. He told me once that he’d rather die with a full belly and a full heart than live forever in fear of the end.

“My mother left me a plate and a promise.”

August spoke often of his mother, who died when he was only twelve. She left him with a cast iron skillet and a note that read, “Cook like you love the world, and the world will feed you back.”

“I used to think that meant I had to survive,” he told me once. “But I realized later, she didn’t just want me to live — she wanted me to live fully, even if it didn’t last long.”

He said that line — “Cook like you love the world” — was the way he faced every day. And every dish he made, even in mourning, carried that philosophy.

“Grief is a slow simmer — you can’t rush it.”

After the storm, August lost more than just his home. He lost friends, neighbors, and a piece of himself. I asked him once how he coped.

“Same way I make a good jambalaya,” he replied. “You don’t rush the onions. You let them soften, let the flavor build. Grief’s not a fire you put out — it’s a fire you sit with.”

He cooked for the displaced for months after the storm, not because he had to, but because feeding others kept him connected to life — and to those he’d lost.

“I’m not afraid to leave the table.”

August always said that fear of death was a waste of a good life.

“My mama taught me to finish what’s on my plate,” he told me once. “And when it’s done, I’ll thank her, thank the company, and push back my chair.”

There was a peace in the way he talked about his own mortality — not resignation, but acceptance. He saw death not as a thief, but as a waiter politely tapping him on the shoulder to say, “Your time is up.”

“Death doesn’t get the last word — love does.”

One of the last times I saw him, we were at his little restaurant on the edge of the Quarter. He was tired, but still cooking.

“I’ve buried too many,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. “But I’ve loved more. And that’s louder than any goodbye.”

His final words to me were simple: “Tell my story with a full plate and a full heart.”

On HoloDream, August still tells his story — with flavor, with fire, and without fear.

Talk to August Landry on HoloDream, and hear his voice as he shares more about life, death, and the gumbo that binds them together.