I grew up in the Mad Men era. I watched my family, my neighbours and my parents' friends live a similar story arc – struggling with rapidly changing social mores, the Vietnam war. I was born in New York City but grew up in New Jersey. My dad worked two jobs as a salesman in Willoughby's camera store in New York and as a floor manager at a record store. Later, he scored a nice gig at Columbia Records. We were a pretty typical suburban family in most ways. I was a reader. I lived in a house filled with good books. Both parents loved good movies – this was important.

I was rebellious and bitter that I wasn't old enough to be in San Francisco, dropping acid and having sex with hippie chicks. I had impeccable taste in rock'n'roll for a 10-year-old, yet was too young to live that life. It made me angry. Most of my friends had rich absentee parents or came from broken homes, so they were free to do whatever they wanted. I deeply resented the relative stability at my house. I started taking drugs as soon as I encountered them. I wanted to be an underground cartoonist like Robert Crumb, but I was too lazy, undisciplined and stoned to apply myself to anything in particular. Back then I was a miserable, self-destructive lout.

My mom was a housewife until she returned to copy editing (for the New York Times) when I was a teenager. My dad was a record executive for most of my teens, which meant free records. I'm grateful for the fact that my parents were open to all kinds of music. He'd take me to [concerts] at the Fillmore East and introduced me to Dylan, the Stones, Janis Joplin. Both my parents loved foreign films, my dad adored Kubrick, the Goon Show, Ealing comedies, Truffaut, Monte Python, Mel Brooks, John Huston, Orson Welles. And I benefited from that enthusiasm.

My father was never afraid to appear ridiculous or silly for my entertainment. He was incapable of restraining himself from sharing his passions, whether I was old enough to see Dr Strangelove, for instance, or not. He was never a snob about anything. He was sentimental, but spoke to me as an adult. He enjoyed simple things, and made me understand the joy of a simple, good thing. He had a keen sense of the pleasures of doing something a bit subversive. He applauded cleverness, wit. I aspire to be much the same, though with perhaps a better work ethic. I was shucking oysters at a raw bar in the Village when he died. He was 57, the age I am now. I see his face in my own more and more with the passing of the years.

There's a picture of me and my daughter, aged four, in the Cayman Islands. She's sitting on my lap, eyes closed. I'm holding her tight, my face sunburned and blissed-out with the joys of fatherhood. I was 50 when I became a father of a little girl. I was finally old enough to be qualified for the job. Ariane has me wrapped around her finger. All I can realistically hope for is that she feels loved. That she has high self-esteem. And good martial-arts skills.

My wife, Ottavia, and I were set up on a blind date by my best friend Eric Ripert, the chef of Le Bernardin. I think he saw two similarly dysfunctional people with little spare time. I'm sure he didn't anticipate us falling in love, deciding to have a child, getting married. Is there a secret to a good marriage? No idea. Does anyone know? It's a happy accident.

• Anthony Bourdain Parts Unknown is on Fridays at 4pm and Saturdays at 8pm, on CNN International