Anthony Bourdain's Blog: Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations : World, Travel, Food, Wine

Past Imperfect/Future Shock

2008-03-10T15:48:18Z

By Anthony Bourdain

There's usually a moment when we're shooting, most often near the end of a long meal. The crew has all the shots they need: plenty of "content" (meaning me, babbling about the food--and someone local, who presumably knows what we're eating, describing it), lots of long, lingering "food porn" close-ups, plenty of footage of kitchen prep (which Todd arrived hours earlier to get) and final assembly. As an exhausted silence settles over the table, well into my cups, I'll look straight at camera and sarcastically say, in my most unctuous, television "host-sums-up" voice, " So....What have we learned today?" This is a cue to producer and shooters that I'm fucking DONE. That it's time to "get some wides", meaning, the crew steps way back and shoots some generic "wide shots" from a distance. Audio is no longer a factor in these , so the mikes come off and those of us at the table can pretty much forget about the cameras, and act naturally, secure in the knowledge that the presumed "working" part of the day is almost over. ]]> So ... as we approach the last episode of this first half of Season 4, one might well ask of us, the No Reservations crew--and our mammoth post production staff back in New York, the exec producers, editors, sound mixers, and wolverine wranglers at ZPZ: "What have we learned this season?"

We've learned some lessons. Some of them, painfully. Among them:

A mediocre food related scene is almost always better than a well-shot bungee jumping scene (or movie extra scene, zip-line trekking, alligator wrestling or trapeze scene).
If you piss off an entire country, you'll get a lot of really wacky posts on your blog--and possibly even incite renewed hostilities with Hungary.
Apparently, I work for the KGB.( I'd forgotten!)
There is a finite appetite for hunting scenes.
When you are advised by official entities that any scene depicting ( insert ethnic or indigenous group constituting 10% or more of the population) will result in a total withdrawal of any and all assistance--including permits and permissions--it's a warning sign.
Ditto when they tell you that you can't shoot any restaurants during business hours--and that you may not show the faces of the cooks. Only hands. Maybe.
Caving scenes are funny. For people who hate you.
Dante, however, is not funny.

So ... what's next? When the machine cranks up again this summer? Where will we be putting into practice all that painstakingly acquired wisdom? Well ... rest assured; just cause they stop showing new episodes doesn't mean we get a break from making them. Oh, no. Already, we've got four in the can, currently being edited--and we're about to leave for Spain for another. With more immediately to follow. And while the order in which we shoot these things is not necessarily the order in which they'll be shown, I can tell you a little about what we've got so far--and what we're planning to get. I also thought I'd provide a few helpful advance reviews--to save food nerds time when the shows actually air.

LAOS: Do I smell ... Emmy? Probably not. But the camera people on this show, (Todd and Zach) are well within reason to hope. Zach had a blissed out expression on his face the entire time in the country. This is a country MADE for cinematographers. Laos was absolutely magical. Everywhere you pointed a camera, enchanted looking mountains loomed out of the mists. Great food. Amazing people with a dramatic, hugely tragic and complicated history. A visually striking, heartfelt journey across a hauntingly beautiful and largely unfamiliar landscape. It had all the elements to be one of the best shows we've ever done.

The verdict? " .....history, schmistory...... I wanted more food information..."

TOKYO/KYOTO: Pure crack for Foodies ! Ultra-Hot, ultra-fetishistic, hardcore food porn! No foreplay--just straight to the good stuff!! Sizzling Yakitori Action! Sultry Sobalicious Goodness, Kooky Cocktails and Kaiseki Kapers -- Sandwiched Between Pounding Steel and without a doubt, the Best Sushi Ever Seen on American Television! Bouncing around Japan with Morimoto in search of Perfection.

The verdict? "...OMG!! Best. Show.. Ever...That scene at Jiro? Made me cream!"

URUGUAY: The Bourdain brothers journey to Montevideo, Punta del Este and the surrounding countryside in search of traces of their mysterious, Uruguayan great, great grandfather. Conclusions? Among other things--that Uruguay makes Argentina look like a vegan suburb of Berkeley. That they like to cook stuff over flame. LOTS of flame. That Montevideo is probably the Next Big Thing--or should be. And that the "civito" is the Greatest Sandwich in the History of Civilization.

The verdict?: "...I found the civitos at San Marco, a tiny place next to the mercado, far superior to the place Bourdain went. And the morcillas he ate are nowhere near as good as the ones at......."

COLOMBIA: It stands to reason that Cartagena is fantastic. But Medellin? Who knew? Among other adventures, The crew heads into neighborhoods where--only a few short years ago--even the police dared not go. And finds one of the most vibrant, welcoming, hospitable and food crazy destinations yet. The surprise of the entire series. All of us on the crew were absolutely shocked and smitten by Colombia. Rarely--if ever--have we been treated so well or had so much fun making television. (And no drug jokes PLEASE. Really.). I think we're among the very first travel shows to go where we went and show who and what we're going to show--and I think people will be blown away by how things have changed from their Miami Vice era perceptions of Colombia (and Medellin in particular). This episode was a perfect example of the principle that it's far, far better for the Tourism Board people to let us do whatever the hell we want (even if they're uncomfortable with some of our destinations) than trying to stage manage or paint over the reality. Colombia Tourism were cool (if occasionally concerned); helpful when needed and hands-off when asked. And the result is one long love letter to a fantastic country, exhuberantly emerging from a long nightmare.

The verdict? " Where can I find arepas like that in Queens? And does anyone have a recipe for Sancocho?"

After an haute-heavy Spain show, Egypt, San Francisco, an investigation of the Azores/New England, Portugese nexus and Papua New Guinea follow. And a couple of Specials. Currently, wading through the submissions for the Travel With Tony thing--an often terrifying task. Just started in--but so far it's like choosing between John Wayne Gacy, Linda Kasabian or Robyn Miller. So many people seem to be videoing themselves from a cellar apartment--a suspicious-looking chest freezer in the background. Posters of Taxi Driver and multiple copies of Catcher In The Rye. Empty tubes of airplane glue. A plastic tarpaulin rolled up against wood panelling ... So many candidates seem to want to take me to rural areas in the Pacific Northwest. The words "drainage culvert" and "wooded area" keep coming up. And I'm supposed to TRAVEL with one of these people? I'm demanding a full background check, polygraph...and a Minneasota Multi-Phasic Personality test--along with the usual Rorsach. Scary!

Adventures in the Ad Trade

2008-02-28T14:37:14Z

You have to wonder about an ad depicting a dead squirrel--with the caption "Some Things Look Better In HD." Which is pretty much what the geniuses at Travel Promo have subjected innocent members of the public to.

Actually, it was worse: An old photo of yours truly -- after a horrifying night of drinking in Iceland, huddled, near naked in the Blue Lagoon, pondering whether to throw up or simply sink beneath the surface and die.

]]> Is this enticing? Does this make ANYONE--even longtime convicts--feel compelled to tune in? Some Things May Indeed Be Better in HD. My puffy, drink ravaged face and 51 year old naked torso would NOT be one of them. With all the beautiful places we've been on the show, THIS is an example of the glories of hi-def ? Apparently, the price of crack must have dropped near HQ. There's no other excuse for this shameful display of ugliness. What tiny, deeply disturbed demo were they trying to appeal to here? German Scat Porn websites likely attract greater numbers. And...

What about the CHILDREN!?

I look forward to the next ad--of my head, photo-shopped onto Barney Fife's naked body torturing a puppy. Now THAT will draw them in!

Romania: What the hell happened??

2008-02-26T21:00:47Z

Predictably, a lot of people either hated--or were deeply offended by--the Romania show. Most, I gather, are either Romanian or have traveled to Romania and had a better time there than I did. Quite understandably, no one wants to see the host of a travel show having a bad time of it in their country, griping miserably about how things went wrong--and how utterly fucked up things were.

But the fact is:

Things WERE fucked up. My Russian pal, Zamir, who had helped make such good shows in Russia and Uzbekistan, was definitely NOT a good choice to show me around Romania. I think, if nothing else, we made that explicitly clear.

]]> The “Motel Dracula” was, in fact, just as bad a time as it looked. Maybe we fucked up picking that spot as something to cover. Though it’s certainly representative of a resurgent, Dracula-based tourist industry. What we DID show you, at least, was exactly how awful it was--and how unhappy I was to be part of such a bogus scene.

The scene at Vlad The Impaler’s statue in Bucharest was not atypical of the kind of “cooperation” and last-minute shakedowns we found whenever we tried to shoot at a “typical” everyday restaurant.

Even WITHOUT cameras, looking just for a relaxed meal, we’d often enter a near empty restaurant, ask if a table was available--and have the waiter tell us “No” in the surliest of terms. WITH cameras--asking if we could shoot was an invitation to either an instinctive “NO” or an invitation to gouging. As waiters and hosts it seems, work on salary--rather than tips, no one really seemed to care about more business, promoting their business or even making more money. People are still uncomfortable in general about being filmed. Understandable, given Romania’s history that many would be reluctant to have their picture taken--as this rarely led to anything good back in the bad old days.

But to describe Romania as particularly friendly? Not really. I’ve been all over the world. Over 50 countries. On the friendly scale? Romania not exactly in the top 40. The food--on camera, off camera? Didn’t matter. It was mostly pretty primitive. Soups may taste good--but they don’t make interesting television. I could lie. But I ain’t gonna.

Which is really what it’s all about, isn’t it? Should I--when faced with a show that’s clearly going wrong--as far as depicting good times and good food--do my best to LIE about it? Put on my best, tightest smile and slog through an hour, yammering a lot of utter bullshit about what a great time I’m having and how good the food is and how friendly the people? You can see that on every other travel and food show. Or get it straight from the tap--at the Tourist Board. This show never pretended to have any responsibility to show the “best” of any place--or the “top ten” of anything. Or to even be diplomatic. I, me, Anthony Bourdain went to Romania. I made some bad decisions. And this is the show I came back with. At the end of the day? That’s what happened. That’s what it felt like. Period. Frankly? I think it’s a pretty funny show.

Day Three: The Aftermath

2008-02-24T21:40:30Z

“Poor Ruhlman,” says my wife, for about the twelfth time today. Michael has just shown her the result of her boxing demo on Friday night; a large, dark purple bruise running from his shoulder to his elbow. A truly gasp-inducing injury. As Mrs. Ruhlman forgivingly pointed out, it was perhaps not such a good idea to suggest--after receiving one playful poke--that my wife “give it her best shot." She’s been taking boxing AND mixed martial arts classes nearly every day for six months and I told Ruhlman that both her left hook and right cross can knock you out. Did he listen?
]]> It’s been a confusing weekend on the beach. My Saturday event was a roaring, enthusiastically belligerent success--yet … I feel, I dunno, diminished and drained by the whole sordid enterprise. Maybe I’m just not angry anymore. I tell you, it shakes you to the core when people you’ve been insulting for years--at every opportunity--are decent to you.

In the last three, up-is-down and down-is-up days Rocco Di Spirito bailed me out, Emeril Lagasse generously fed me, Jamie Oliver talked child rearing with me for hours. Cat Cora was civil and … drum roll please ... Rachael Ray was unfailingly polite. I fear I might even have hurt her feelings. They might as well have worked me over with tire irons. I feel an utter beast this morning.

Day Two: South Beach Wine and Food Festival

2008-02-23T15:17:17Z

By Anthony Bourdain

Well ... the Golden Clogs went pretty much as hoped by the Forces of Evil. Under-attended. Coincidence? Or conspiracy? Many of the people who DID show up were either a) drunk or b) seemingly confused. Ruhlman and I raced through our ceremonial duties as quickly as we could--before the little remaining gold paint left on our awards peeled entirely away--and before a good part of the audience realized we were NOT the warm up to “Paula’s Poker Party” and that there would be no free fruit cup.

You know, I’ve mercilessly and enthusiastically made sport of Rocco di Spirito many, many times. I’ve said--and accused him--of a full menu of truly awful things. Some of them were even true. No matter how bizarre or inexplicable some of his career choices, I always respected him as a gifted cook. He’s also--when not flogging frozen products--a thoughtful and insightful judge on Top Chef. But I have to tell you--of ALL the chefs who said they were absolutely, positively, by all means would be DELIGHTED to show up at our travesty of an awards ceremony--at the end of the day, only Rocco and Aaron Sanchez actually made it.

]]> Rocco had enough balls and sense of humor about himself to fly out of a snowstorm on an early flight so two miserable pricks who’d done nothing but make fun of him over the years could have him present the “Rocco Award” for “Worst Career Move” to Tyler Florence. Tyler, we were informed at the last minute, encountered a “problem with his calamari for the Bubble Q” and was suddenly needed elsewhere. While on one hand, I was very grateful to Tyler for (at least initially) agreeing to subject himself to our cruel ritual disembowelment, the image of Tyler Florence personally cleaning 500 pounds of squid was difficult to summon. Particularly next to the Sysco truck.I believe Aaron (who has every reason to want to give Ruhlman a kick in the nuts--after the shameful hair-hopper face-off of Next Iron Chef) accepted on Tyler’s behalf.

Later, an expansive Mario Batali told us of an e-mail from an FN executive, “thanking him for NOT attending the Clogs.” Similar stories filtered back all day. A relieved looking Tyler apologized for missing the gig when we saw him at the Bubble Q thing. “REALLY sorry I missed it, man,” he said. “But maybe next year. It’s the perfect thing for like 2 O’ Clock in the morning--and maybe another venue.”

He had the look of a man who just successfully dodged a bullet. And he was, of course, absolutely right about the right time and place for a loud, profane and disrespectful event as ours--only slightly better than a mob of skinheads or crackhead rodeo clowns in the eyes of family friendly outfits like FN and ... Applebees.

Which is why we’re doing it all over again today, Saturday, at FIVE PM before the general public. Just me. Ruhlman. And our filthy list of “winners" and Losers--minus all the flattering shit. Yesterday, was the PG version. Today? Apocalypse NOW.

Dateline: Miami - The South Beach Wine and Food Festival

2008-02-22T14:24:41Z

Reporting it As It Happens: your humble correspondent, Anthony Bourdain:

Day One:

Ruhlman showed up late for our all-important preparatory session for the Golden Clog Awards Ceremony last night, by which time I was deep into the negronis. I have only the dimmest of memories of who, exactly, is nominated for what--and NO memory at all of who’s supposed to win. I think we ended up deciding on making half of it up as we go along--mid-ceremony. Our “celebrity presenters” have--for the most part, abandoned us for safer pastures.

There has been, I am reliably informed, a terror campaign of late night heavy--breathing phone calls, suggestions of “you’ll never work in this town--or ANY town--again” and a wave of second, more sensible thoughts. The affected parties have suddenly remembered previous charitable commitments: (The “Putt For and End to the Heartbreak of Psoriasis” Invitational, the “Pull My Finger To Stop Chronic Flatulence” Bowlin’ and BBQ Party--and the Fiji Water For Peace event claiming the lion’s share of defectors). Can’t say I blame them ...
]]> The guys who’ve been hanging tough and not knuckling under? You’d be shocked to know (and you will..soon). This whole enterprise looks to be rapidly devolving into a shameful and ridiculous sham ... My (not unreasonable) fear is that Ruhlman and I are going to be stuck up there for an hour--trapped in some unfunny, Shecky and Dino dinner theater kind of a thing--as our audience squirms with embarrassment, waiting for the right moment to flee ...

My other concern, of course, is that Robert (Dinner Inconvenient) Irvine, deranged by his suddenly disappearing biographies and his rudely canceled event--will somehow focus some hormone-fueled rage on ... me--and wrap his tiny little hands around my neck while flexing those oversized guns. My brains would squeeze out of the top of my head like toothpaste coming out of the tube ...

Notes From the Road: Tokyo

2008-02-04T02:43:28Z

By Anthony Bourdain

Well, one can hardly complain about the plumbing here. The toilet seat is a preheated, toasty warm. A menu of warm jets of varying intensities, direction and temperature awaits should I choose to press one of the many buttons. I am afraid to do so. Since Todd discovered his toilet, it’s been very hard getting him out of the bathroom for crew calls. Yesterday, after numerous unanswered phone calls, we had to ask the management to break into his room. After a brief scuffle we were able to drag him, pants around his ankles and a copy of US Magazine in his hand, screaming, to the production van.

“But I’ve never felt so FRESH,” he kept wailing, plaintively from the back seat. His face pressed to the window as he stared longingly back in the direction of the hotel.

]]> Last night, we shot “walking B-roll” in the narrow alleyways of Golden Gai, an incredible rabbit warren of tiny bars and casual “joints”. After the rest of the crew fanned out across Kabuki-Cho, Zach and I took a break from the cold, randomly choosing a particularly uninviting looking doorway and then climbing what was literally a ladder to a dollhouse-sized second floor bar. Slid open a door and found what appeared to be a punk rock themed six-seat bar. Empty but open for business. Smaller than the interior of our production van, there was just room enough for the two of us, our coats and Zach’s camera. Two beers later and back to work.

Later, off to Shinjuku to meet Shinji our former fixer/driver-from such shows as the Tokyo episodes we did years ago on that Other Network. He led all of us down an insanely overlit street filled with big-haired hawkers and shills (all of whom seem to have modeled their do’s after mid 80’s Poison, Cinderella or Motley Crue) ... into an
anonymous office building, up a banged up elevator to the 5th floor, arriving at the kind of loud, packed casual izakaya I dearly love. Sashimi, grilled yellowtail collars, tuna cheeks, chunks of whale (sorry PETA), beer and more beer.

I’m concerned about Chris Martinez, our editor, who we flew out here at great expense to our masters. The idea was, quite frankly, that the poor man doesn’t get out enough. He’s certainly edited a lot of tape set in Asia - he’s just never been here himself. It was argued, back at ZeropointZero HQ, that while his work has always been brilliant, it could only improve if Chris himself were given some time outside of the dark editing room in which, from all appearances, he has spent the greater part of his life. I looked forward to plying him with sushi and unidentifiable squiggly things, forcing great quantities of beer and sake upon him- and watching his mind expand - even, perhaps, blow apart (temporarily), as mine did, my first trip out here. But so far? It hasn’t worked out that way. First off, the sonofabitch appears to be some kind of semi-vegetarian. Didn’t make it to the izakaya crew meal cause he had jet lag and the squirts. During a micro-club shoot and the yakitori scene, he had to huddle in the cold outside as there was no room to put him inside. At the soba place this morning--while Morimoto and I slurped noodles, Chris sat out of range, food-less, reading a much used and suspiciously stained copy of Outlaw Editor magazine. I think the article was called “Cuts and Sluts” - illustrated with photos of a hefty looking Amazon with an orange faux hawk and a silver lame thong, stretched across a console. During lunch, while Morimoto worked his knife through a whole monkfish on my behalf, Chris ordered out for pizza. Tomorrow’s three star Michelin sushi shoot at Sukiyabashi Ono holds out equally small promise for the guy. The place only has six seats. I feel compelled to feed him liquor. Maybe even violate my own deeply held principles about karaoke. I even promised to perform my own, rather notorious version of “White Wedding” if he chugs a couple a bottles of Sapparo and wraps a tie around his head. I don’t know…Time is running out.

Hopefully the ryokan on Monday will bring an attitude change. My attempts, by the way, to pump the very diplomatic Morimoto for inside information on my former employers, have come to nothing. He parries my every question with the evasive skills of a Condaleeza Rice:

“Who’s the most clueless judge you’ve had to face on Iron Chef America? Mo Rocca? Or That Guy who played ‘Big Pussy‘ on the Sopranos? ”

“Next Food Network Star: Could ANY of those tools even cut an onion?” I get nothing. A low chuckle, a shake of the head. Morimoto’s way, I’m guessing, of saying, “Nice try.”

Update: On the way to the Master knife forger scene, we stopped at an okonomiyaki joint for a quick crew meal. Morimoto suggested the Hiroshima style (not surprising, as he comes from there) but Martinez stuck with the home team: classic Osaka. Apparently, he’s been having impure thoughts about the stuff since cutting the Osaka show a while back - and he fell on that order like a one man pack of feral dogs, snorting and breathing heavy and making all sorts of Godawful noises, scraping his food right off the griddle with the handy - but still sizzling hot - spatula and shoveling it into his greedy maw without a thought. We were all quite impressed. Morimoto, catching sight of the carnage occurring only a few feet away, moved quietly away - afraid, perhaps, of losing an extremity in the flurry of snapping jaws and grinding teeth. I believe Chris is happy now.

Notes From the Road: Laos: Mount Phupadeng, near the Plain of Jars

2008-01-21T20:30:02Z

By Anthony Bourdain

The fire went out early again last night. Not even embers going when I woke up at 3AM. It’s cold and drafty at night, up here on Phupadeng, and stuck without kindling, I ended up burning my briefing material, page by page--in ascending order of importance--as my situation became more desperate and the wood finally caught fire. I now have no idea what I’m doing tomorrow. But after dragging my bed around directly in front of the narrow column of heat coming from the fireplace, and burying myself under three quilts, I was toasty warm and slept like the dead.
After a breakfast of chicken, grilled between splints of bamboo, and an egg omelette, a soup of wild mushrooms and greens--and of course, sticky rice and fiery chili paste, we headed out into the mountains to visit a rice farmer and family, catch some swallows and have a meal.

]]> All quite wonderful--as you’ll see on the show. Just about anywhere you point your camera in Laos, you see something beautiful and extraordinary. It’s a mountainous landscape, thickly forested with tall bamboo, palms, fir and pine trees, impossibly vertical karsks, remote villages and few paved roads. Most mornings, it is covered with storybook mists. It’s one of the few countries on Earth still barely touched by Western chains. There are No McDonalds. No Starbucks. No KFCs. Anywhere. Even in the sleepy capitol city of Vientiane. The food is spicy and mostly delicious and just about everyone we speak to is warm, generous and remarkably open about their lives, their hopes, their joys and their often considerable pain.

So little is known about this country. Less, I suspect, is known about the secret war here. Having had the bad luck to be a weak, neutral neighbor of Vietnam, Laos found itself, from 1962 until 1975, on the receiving end of more bombs than all the bombs dropped on all of Germany and Japan in all of World War Two. The equivalent of a bombing mission every nine minutes, 24 hours a day, for TEN YEARS. Pilots returning from bombing runs in North Vietnam, often dumped whatever extras they had on Laos on the way home. There were--unlike Vietnam--no rules of engagement. As supposedly, we weren’t even there. About 30% of those bombs were “cluster” munitions. And about 30% of their cute, attractive-to-kids bomblets are still lying, undetonated, around rural Laos, waiting for farmers to find them--often setting them off in the process. About a hundred people a year--most of whom weren’t even alive during the conflict--still die from unexploded ordinance. Many more lose limbs. We went out with a bomb disposal unit and saw for ourselves.

Much later:
The shoot is done and, fortified with “lao-lao”, the local moonshine and a brief investigation of local herbs and flora (or is that fauna?), Zach, Todd and I appropriate the three rented production motorbikes--leaving the rest of the crew to drive home in the van. We tear ass across the Lao countryside, free, free, FREE and deliriously happy. Through dusty Hmong villages, past brown, fallow rice paddies, hump-backed bulls, black pigs, thatched roof homes on stilts, misty mountains, the mysterious Plain of Jars, dodging the occasional water buffalo, sometimes riding three abreast, but usually falling back into our own solitary, tripped out zones--our own individual road movies. Laos smells of wood smoke, earth, mint, lemongrass, deep forest, fermented fish (paa-dek)…and the edge.

Tomorrow, it’s a 9 hour road trip across country to Luang Prabang where I am assured of a hot shower of excellent quality--And the possibility of mini-bar.

Notes From the Road ... The Home Edition

2008-01-11T15:18:20Z

By Anthony Bourdain

It's possible to hurt my feelings. For instance:
I admit I'm genuinely annoyed by the occasional internet poster who suggests that whatever I might have to say about food, about travel--about anything--is somehow gravely diminished by the fact that I'm no longer working in a professional kitchen. That proximity to the line, the actual job of cooking dinner for the public enhances one's powers of perception, focuses the mind and builds vocabulary and that "keeping it real" necessitates dying behind the stove, a broken, broken kneed and broke-ass geezer in his mid-fifties, long past it as a cook - finally succumbed to stroke or liver disease. It's a point of view popular among internet nerds and cubicle geeks who've never done a minute's physical labor in their lives, the same people who take photographs of every course at their favorite restaurants, convinced that it's Jean Georges himself in there, personally boning out their squab.

My instinctive reaction to this kind of inverse snobbery is normally a raised middle finger and a "I had twenty-eight years of standing behind a stove - while you were arguing over bundt cake recipes in a chat room, motherfucker! Now, kiss my ass!!"

But the fact is, there's a little voice in my head that completely agrees with their point of view.
]]> All those years hanging out with no one but professional cooks, looking out at the world through the narrow tunnel vision of the kitchen - it alters, irrevocably, one's value system and ties one's sense of self worth inseparably and inversely to how bad, physically, you feel at the end of the day when you roll into bed. While I may want to reach through the computer screen and across the ether to strangle some snarky Comic Book Guy who's basically sayin' I'm a pussy, there IS that subconscious connection in my mind between flopping half-drunk on top of the covers, my back, knees and feet throbbing painfully, smelling like Charlie the Tuna after a hard day's work - and the sense that I have completed a day of honest, virtuous toil.

Writing and making television DOES feel easier, less useful and frankly less worthwhile than cooking for a living. Maybe these budding snarkologists have a point; I mean ... who really gives a fuck what a career "television personality" has to say? I mean, MY knee jerk reaction, every time I see Ryan Seacrest, for instance, is to wish him a forced march off to a collective farm/reeducation camp. Surely that would be better for everybody; Ryan - and society as a whole. Wouldn't it?

So, with this in mind, and in the grip of a particularly powerful wave of self-loathing, I got the bright idea to return to Les Halles, the restaurant where I spent all my waking hours before the writing and the TV thing took over. I thought to myself: "There's an idea for a special episode! I'll go back to the same restaurant kitchen and challenge myself to work the same station as I used to six and a half years ago. In fact; I'll go back and work my old Tuesday double shift - where I'd work the very busy, very difficult saute station both lunch and dinner. Start prep and set-up at eight AM. Twelve noon to twelve midnight service. Let's see if the Old Guy can still do it after all these years - even at 51 years old. Even though I was beginning to lose it BEFORE "Kitchen Confidential" hit and I got my ticket out. Even though Les Halles has expanded since I left - nearly DOUBLING in size and seating ... And I'll do this smack in the middle of the Christmas season! The busiest time of the year!! THAT sounds like a great idea - in a self-validating, quasi-delusional, I've-Still-Got-It, last gasp kindofa way!

And it'll make good television!"

As the date grew close, it began to dawn on me that I was not so sure I could actually do what I'd hoped to do - that I was physically (or mentally, for that matter) up to the challenge. Carlos, my one time protege - and now the executive chef, had serious concerns. He pointed out, among other things, that the menu has changed - a LOT - since 2001. And that the busiest night I'd ever worked the line at Les Halles, we'd done 365 covers. That NOW they regularly did as many as 650 - with the same number of cooks!! And that I was suspiciously old - and out of practice - and couldn't possibly be serious about this whole enterprise anyway. This was a worrying vote of no-confidence, particularly since my crew would be filming the whole thing. Come victory or total humiliation - the unblinking eyes of three cameras would be upon me the whole day and night.

So I invited a friend along--to share the pain.

Eric Ripert is the chef of the three Michelin starred Le Bernardin in New York City. It's easily and inarguably one of the best restaurants in America - if not the world. Eric is also a good friend, prone to making rash decisions when drinking expensive tequila. So I fed him a couple of shots, told him of my plan - and double-dared him to join me.

"C'mon, fish boy ... Let's see if you can work the busiest, most thankless, turn- and- burn grill station in New York. Do you even know how to cook meat? Have you EVER worked a place as busy as Les Halles? Have you ever worked a place where you don't even wipe the rim of the plates? Can you handle that?"

Eric's words were. " It sounds like fun." (Add French accent here)

So, that's how it went down, friends. Unwitting customers who showed up for their reservations at Les Halles on December 18th (2007) had their gaze wandered over to the grease smeared kitchen window - would have seen an unlikely combo of rookie cooks preparing their steak frites and their pork mignons, struggling and sweating in our jailhouse "vato loco" kerchief headgear (obligatory since a recent Health Dept. pinch, says Carlos).

How did it work out? How did we do? Did we bring honor to our clan? Could Ripert restrain himself from wiping each plate and fiddling with garnishes? Did he manage to keep his hands off the tequila? Did the enraged regular line cooks of Les Halles, frustrated by the visiting team of dilletantes, shank the gabachos like jailhouse punks? Did I go under like a drowning man- - swamped by a torrent of orders? Or did I simply decide to screw the pooch, drop my apron and swan around the dining room for the duration?

You'll just have to tune in.

Notes From the Road ... Hawaii

2008-01-04T18:11:49Z

By Anthony Bourdain

I was sitting poolside in Waikiki, after a hard days shoot, taking a brief break from my club sandwich and boat drink to check on my e-mail. Michael Ruhlman had cut and pasted something for me and sent it along for my "immediate attention". It indicated under "subject" that it had originated from the Food Network and it looked like a press release, so I assumed it would be of about as much interest to me as Guy Fieri's hair styling tips or Carrot Top's breakfast preferences. But I read a few lines and immediately almost spit up my Mai Tai:

"Food Network will reprise original series 'A Cook's Tour' this December, it was announced today by Bob Tuschman, Senior Vice President, Programming and Production for Food Network. The series, featuring outspoken chef Anthony Bourdain, returns to Food Network with a Christmas Day Marathon, airing four back-to-back episodes on Tuesday, December 25th from 9-11pm ET/PT. The series will then join the primetime lineup in its new timeslot on Tuesday, January 8th at 10:30pm ET/PT. "Anthony Bourdain is a passionate foodie who has amazing stories to share as he takes viewers on a unique tour of our planet" said Tuschman. We look forward to introducing new viewers to this memorable Food Network series and know they will enjoy Anthony's unique voice and unforgettable adventures."

"Why? Why that old show? And why now?"
]]> I howled out loud in the general direction of the sea. A few small children by the kiddie pool began to cry - frightened perhaps, by my primal outburst. Why - after all these years - would they put my old episodes back on the air? The damn things were filmed in 2000 and 2001!! They have nothing newer, or fresher or better - after all that time - than my first, stumbling, nascent attempts at making travel/food television? They don't have any material from anyone else - like from someone who doesn't make constant rude and obscene suggestions about their stable of "stars?" Surely they haven't reached so far down the bottom of the archives as to want ME back?!

This was like being unexpectedly groped and publicly slipped the tongue by the ugliest girl at the prom. You're flattered by the attention - but frankly ... embarrassed. And the timing seemed suspicious. As I ordered two more and then a third Mai Tai, paranoia began to set in.

"They're not putting the show back on because they like it. They're trying to destroy me!" I theorized. People will surely comment on the striking - even horrifying - decline in my appearance since those few years ago - and will wonder why they would still watch someone who is clearly dying of some hideous hair whitening, skin puffing, tropical bloating disease. Or maybe they're putting it back on as a deliberate strategy to break off and confuse a segment of potential audience who might otherwise be tuning in to the exciting new season of NO RESERVATIONS (the vastly superior and more expensive series on TRAVEL CHANNEL)! Maybe ... maybe it's vengeance for some of the Rachael Ray cracks. In fact...MAYBE it's part of some secret deal to keep her on the network ... some ultra hush-hush rider to her contract! I've been trying to buy those old shows back for ages - to make DVDs. They've refused to sell, sitting on them year after year. Until now. Coincidence? Or conspiracy?
Or, I pondered, is this an ill considered scheme to buy my silence? Perhaps the reasoning goes that with my old shows running on the network again ( a development which, to be perfectly honest, will be very good for my book sales), I'll shut up - as one chef at a time, the Old Guard of Food Network stars are dragged off to the slaughter house and "disappeared"... that with newly restored vested interest in Food Network's good will, I might be less inclined to make mention of the look of sheer ... terror ... I recognized in Paula Deen's eyes as she laughed and guffawed dutifully on Iron Chef America's holiday sugar challenge. If you watched closely, the mouth moved as ordered. But the eyes ...The EYES. They had seen things. Terrible things. Kruschev had the same expression on his face early in his career - when he had to laugh at the Boss's jokes.

I finished my Hawaii shoot in a state of agitation, dreading the FN promos to come, figuring it'll be like being publicly identified as a Milwaukee Brewer long after having moved to the Yankees.The rest of the week, I rode the wild, North Shore surf at Banzai Pipeline and Sunset (in a jet ski), hovered over boiling magma on the Big Island, was offered every variety of unexpectedly wonderful local food - but my mind was elsewhere.

Finally, back in New York, I opened the New York Times - and reading closely between the lines, got to the heart of the matter:

"All good things come to an end and it was time to do something new'" network pres, Brooke Johnson is quoted as saying - describing the net's inexplicable decision to piss on their biggest star and founding father, Emeril Lagasse by cancelling "Emeril Live". " RIGHT NOW, WE'RE FIGURING OUT WHAT THAT SOMETHING NEW IS," (emphasis mine).

I gotta tell you, by the way; if I were a Scripps stockholder, I wouldn't want to hear my network press talking any shit about "figuring stuff out" I'd want to hear "We KNOW what we're doing." "Floundering around trying a buncha different shit - kind of a scattershot approach. Throw a bunch of stuff at the wall and see what sticks kindofathing" doesn't sound like a business plan I want to invest in. But maybe that's just me.

Watching that very public and very painful process of "figuring out" has provided some pretty hilariously embarrassing viewing over the past year of declining audience share for Food Net( Down 36,000 total day ratings and 15% for its weekend bloc according to the Times). There's last year's Great Hope, Guy Fieri, who reminds me of the "Poochie" character in the classic Simpson's episode where it is decided that Itchy and Scratchy need a "hip, in-your-face, pro-active" new sidekick to bring in a younger demographic. Poochie (and seemingly Guy) is created by committee and an assemblage of compiled stats from focus groups: "Twenty percent more rasta" "needs more surfer" ...Then there's the shockingly offensive nitwit on "Have Fork Will Travel" a comedian (we are assured) who appears to have been hired so that he can travel the world making fun of other people's accents.

There was the gruesome public spectacle of "Next Food Network Star" which Ms. Johnson, in yet another in a series of transparent howlers, suggests is the prototype for "Top Chef". If you missed the scandal, the subsequent show-trial and 'confession' of front running 'Jag' and the last minute switcheroo where 'fired' contestant Amy ended up winning a seemingly botched call-in audience vote, you missed one of the most entertainingly screwed up, colossal clusterfucks ever. The Times article goes on to describe the "way more onerous" new deals being offered the on-air personalities; contracts where the net would grab a piece of book deals, merchandise, licensing and outside activities. Ms. Johnson, sounding not unlike Carlo Gambino, is quoted as responding with, "we like to be in partnership with our talent in a variety of venues." After this blood-chilling remark she adds, "TO MY KNOWLEDGE, the talent is happy with the deals we have with them." This last is notable for two things: First, the lawyerly use of "to my knowledge" which generally means "when you present me with the inevitable evidence to the contrary, at least I can say, I didn't lie." And the unconscious use of the word "talent." As anyone who has ever worked in front of a camera can tell you - when the producers or camera people or crew refer to you as "the talent?" They mean "asshole."

Continuing my research, I found the last of a staggering series of Tourettes-like diplomatic blunders when Johnson responded to Eater.com's question about the new Rachael Ray deal that "Rachael is the quintessential example of the homegrown stars we create at Food Network." Now ... however true it might be that Food Network grew Rachael from a culture in a petri dish, I doubt very much whether the bestselling newly, superpowerful Oprah-charged Ms. Ray would like to think of herself as "created by" anybody - much less Ms. Johnson and her cohorts.

On reflection, I think I'll enjoy being - once again - the turd in the Food Network punchbowl. I shall tune in, for sure. Squeezed between "Follow That Fudge" and "America's Ultimate Deep Fryers," my younger, thinner, darker-haired self will stare back at me, still unknowing, blundering through my first adventures in television, my first, eye opening trips to Asia, Africa and South America. Two short years. The suggestions of dude ranches, tailgate parties, chili cook-offs and barbeque, barbeque, barbeque would begin soon - like a gathering storm. And I would be gone - to toil in happier, more productive fields.

Notes From the Road ... Jamaica

2007-12-17T16:52:48Z

By Anthony Bourdain

Regular viewers will know that in my quest to appease the television Gods, I have found myself in some difficult situations. In Namibia, for instance, where I found myself politely (if reluctantly) munching on a crap-filled tube. Weeks later, after a suitable interlude on high dosages of antibiotics, I made a silent vow to myself that I would try to avoid meals like this in the future. There would be no more crap filled tubes.

Then, just a few days ago, I found myself and my crew descending into one. Yes. You heard right. Now, my producers are a fairly responsible bunch. When I read "cave exploring" on the list of suggested scenes for the Jamaica show, I figured there'd be hand rails and a gift shop. I figured we'd pull the production van into the parking lot, take a spin around the cave with our trusty guide, buy a T-shirt--and I'd be back at the hotel pool nursing a rum punch before you could say Peter Tosh. Perhaps I should have inquired further. Maybe we all should have.

]]> Which is how me, Todd, Zach, new producer Paul and Diane found ourselves rapelling backwards into pitch blackness, down a vertical, crap-slicked shaft, deeper and deeper into the earth, the bat-guano inches deep, cockroaches the size of Cuban cigars skittering under and around us. Safety equipment? No. Not really. Unless you count a couple of ropes as safety equipment. Trained adventure-sport guides? Uh-uh. Two bat and invertabrate specialist who really really like guano--and are willing to lower themselves into an unmarked freakin' cave, two miles into the steaming jungle and crawl around on their hands and knees for miles and miles with only tiny lightbulbs on their heads for illumination . It was like a horror movie. It was worse than a horror movie. After lowering ourselves for what seemed like hours, squeezing and slipping and tripping and crawling, slowly picking our way across slippery "mud" and wet, smooth stone--inches from vertical drops which disappeared into...nothingness, we found ourselves on a rare horizontal level, the air around us getting curiously warmer. And warmer.

"Feel that?" says Dr. Guano, Phd. "That's the body heat of two million bats."

Now, I am a distinguished gentleman of some years. I should, at my age, if I had a brain in my head, be doing something respectable and less punishing in the way of recreational activities. Like golf. Or shooting at birds. So it did not fill me with satisfaction or confidence when, after a particularly dodgy section of backwards traverse into a puddle of black goo, I found the narrow light on my "safety" helmut fixed on Zach, our youngest and fittest cameraman. Usually a happy-go-lucky sort, always the first to volunteer to be strapped standing to the bow of a speedboat, fond of hanging out of helicopters and moving cars in order to "get the shot"., his face was drawn and filled with what can only be described as terror. He looked up at me, voice trembling and said, in a tremulous, high-pitched voice, "This is fuuucked up, Sarge!"

By the end of the day, after miraculously managing to climb out of the cave (up the mossy wet roots of a tree, no less) we all looked like we'd been dipped in ordure. Scraped, strained, scuffed-- bitten by untold numbers of carnivorous insects, reeking of the reduced, toxic sludge of two million bats, we silently began the two mile hump through steep, muddy jungle. We were not a happy bunch that day as we headed back to the hotel. I suggested jumping straight into the swimming pool, turning the water instantly brown in front the horrified guests--but was over ruled. Todd had had some kind of incident requiring a doctor. Diane looked like she'd been strafed with buckshot. Paul appeared to have lost a wrestling match with Willie Wonka. I ended up throwing out every scrap of boots and clothing.

It sucked. Big time. The hardest, most physically demanding, insanely foolhardy and irresponsible venture ever on NO RESERVATIONS. I hated every second of it.

It's gonna make great television.