They'll appear on the fan site--for those who wish to click on them. I wrote the damn things--so there's nobody to blame but me if they're not as quick, nasty--and funny as I think they are. And I want to thank Andrew Zimmern and Samantha Brown in advance--for their extraordinarily good humored participation in one particularly lurid episode. I hope we don't freak out their fan base.

Photo courtesy of Betty Hinchman; Zach Zamboni and
Todd Liebler accept their Emmy award for Outstanding
Cinematography for a Non-fiction series.

Congratulations, my friends-with whom I've spent far more time over the years than with my family. And thank you.

Speaking of family, this Monday's show probably represents the most perverse angle we could have taken for a season ender.

After five full years of making NO RESERVATIONS and trying, always, to do something different from whatever seemed to work (or didn't work) the week before, I think we found an entirely new way to undermine any comfortable assumptions about what we do. Known for snark? Let's do the exact opposite. The sickest, most transgressive, borderline suicidal move we could make this week? A warm, huggy family drama-with cute kid! Hell-there's even a bunny (Okay....we ate its family-but still...)!

It's the last show of the season-before getting back on the pony for a decidedly harsher, higher impact, more foreign location centered Season Six. Looking down the road at ten months of balls-out craziness, where we're hoping to push things farther than we've ever done before, in places like the Congo, Beirut, Cuba, the Central Highlands of Viet Nam, Ecuador, the Caribbean, Panama, Istanbul, Southern India, I'm really happy with this more quiet, food and family oriented look at a beautiful place seldom seen on television. And, I have to say, I enjoyed indulging my once carefully hidden secret aspirations to be some kind of country Italian patriarch.

When I first laid eyes on Sardinia, about two years ago, I saw how amazing it was, how thoroughly different-looking than anywhere else I'd been, my first thought, (TV whore that I am) was "Damn! I gotta make a show here!"

By the time a week had passed and my father in-law's family had shown me around and plied me with a greatest hits of Sardinian food, I was ticking off a list of things I had to do again-only this time on-camera. I mentioned this, casually, in conversation-at which point-the entire family swung into action. I should have seen it coming-that there was never any question that of course they'd take charge. It was instantly a matter of family and national pride.

My show is shown in Italy. Friends and neighbors in Lombardy and Sardinia would see this thing I'd be working on. I would not be allowed to fuck it up! Unfortunately, for my wife, no one in the family speaks English (I communicate with my in-laws in my appallingly inept French). And as Aunt Andreana had already pretty much taken over as executive producer and the rest of the family had fanned out across Sardinia searching for scenes and checking locations, it was really only a matter of time until Ottavia was dragooned into service. I say "unfortunately" because she'd really and truly rather shove her head into a bag full of poisonous snakes than be on television-particularly on my show-a program of which she is a particularly harsh critic.

It was pointed out that as the family were already committed as enthusiastic participants it would look weird if she were not on the show and even weirder if a hired sidekick/fixer was seen showing me around the family compound and her Dad's hometown of Nuoro, or introducing me to specialties her family had introduced me to only the year previous. Frankly, I used every variety of emotional blackmail available to me. Her last line of defense was a suggestion that I hire a "stunt wife" for the episode. Someone out of central casting-the Italian version. Didn't happen. And she's been living in a state of near mortification since, dreading tonight. Augusto, Nelson, Dania and Eric will know what I'm talking about.

Those of you concerned that No Reservations has suddenly taken a turn towards the travel TV version of Paul McCartney and Wings can rest assured that we're already well into shooting season six and that it's chockfull of jungle bugs, burning cocaine, backwoods hooch, and dick jokes. Sadly, no warthog anus as yet. But there's always tomorrow.

We may have kind of sucked-but we worked hard, dammit-and if nothing else, habitually cranked out a helluva lot more dinners than anybody on the visiting team. By the time I dropped the thing in the water, the ring had outlived its usefulness. It went the way of my earring, joining-in one sense or another-my Dead Boys T-shirt, my telescoping billyclub and my crack pipe in some Davey Jones locker of once cherished but now abandoned objects. I think Steven will forgive me.

Speaking of rings, it's worth noting that they're notorious hiding places/vectors for bacteria and thus frowned upon in food handling. With each added ring, a cook is increasing your chances for infection exponentially. When you eat food handled by a guy with four or five rings on his fingers, it's like the gastro-intestinal version of unprotected group sex: each added protuberance makes it that much more likely you're picking up something -- really nasty. You might consider that next time Guy Fieri makes you an order of wasabi meatballs.

----------------------------------------------

My shame and misery while shooting the upcoming Outer Boroughs show was entirely heartfelt. It's shocking and unforgivable that I've lived so long in New York City, have seen so much of the rest of the world, and know so pathetically little about the wonderlands of food just across the river. The world has passed me by in no small number of ways, but this is painful in a fashion that my other areas of ignorance are not. Residents of Brooklyn and Queens in particular will carp that I show so little of their exploding food scenes-that I missed so much. Exactly.

Just eating around Flushing leaves me feeling much as I do in China, confronted with every bite by my own mortality and the lack of sufficient time left to do a proper job with a humongus subject.

On the plus side, I did get to down tiki drinks with David Johansen--though his enthusiasm for the New York Dolls of old seemed less…fervent than mine. Staten Island, it turns out, is the home of the last irony-free Hawaiian/Polynesian tiki palace in New York. A fine and beautiful thing. I brook no snickering with my flaming pu-pu platters.

-------------------------------------------------

In keeping with the "wallowing in my own ignorance" theme of this blog entry, let me say that any preconceived notions I might have had about Turkey being mostly about meat on a stick have been proved terribly wrong. Istanbul is a freakin' foodie paradise. It's downright brain bending how much good stuff is to be found at even everyday eateries-how difficult it is to walk down the street-any street-and not want to eat everything in sight. Table service is stunningly good as well-something of a rarity on this scale.

------------------------------------------------

Finally, may I refer any of you who have inquired, jokingly or otherwise, over the years, about a job on the show, to production assistant Helen Cho's excellent Crew Blog entry. She discusses the seamy underside of a day's toil at Zero Point Zero, citing a "to do" list that included the wrangling of a bong, a compliant pet store, a rodeo clown and three dead prostitutes. I'm guessing life's a little less weird over at Passport To Europe. But then you never know.

Picking on the Food Network has become too easy. It's low hanging fruit.
So ... this week, at least, I thought I'd look at another network. One I actually watch. And these days, when I'm home, the majority of my TV watching time is spent sitting on the living room floor watching Nick Jr. and Noggin. I take an interest in my child's viewing habits. For all my earlier promises to myself that I'd limit her TV watching time to like--half an hour a day--that has been a hard policy to enforce. Denying a 2 year old when her lip starts to tremble and her face crumples, a look of utter betrayal in her eyes as she implores me: "Da Da? I want Backyardigans!" has proven to be too much for me.
It's edumacational anyways, right?

Plus, I really like THE BACKYARDIGANS. I find the adventures of Pablo, Austin, Tasha, Tyrone and Uniqua thrilling. It looks unlike anything else on kiddie TV, the characters (animated with the help of live action dancer choreographers) move differently than any other brightly animal colored characters you've ever seen. The backgrounds are eerily wonderful and atmospheric--like Grand Theft Auto without the dead prostitutes and chain saws. The music, by former Lounge Lizard Evan Lurie is quirky, catchy, creative and ever changing. In brief, each episode begins with the five (sometimes only four) characters playing in their adjacent suburban backyards. A theme is struck..they wander into an episode- long fantasy world. At some point in the story, one of the characters' stomachs will begin to growl. A snack is suggested. Whatever beautifully designed world of the imagination they're in dissolves around them as the friends rush the few steps home for a snack. I actually experience a frisson as the walls of a medieval castle, windswept beach, Mount Olympus-- whatever world the little friends occupy that week--dissolve around them, the trappings of a suburban backyard reassembling itself as they toddle inside for cookies.

On the other hand, I resent that the painfully animated WONDER PETS has an unholy grip on my daughter's affections. And I count the days until she tires of these cloyingly cute little cut outs, seemingly reassembled and animated from scraps of magazine photographs. Is it possible to hate an animated character? Personally hate them? Because my loathing for guinea-pig Linnie and turtle Tuck is exceeded only by my fervent hope that one of these days, the disgustingly cute duckling, "Ming-Ming" will get sucked into a lawnmower or a fan, ending her reign of terror over my household. And if my little girl grows up pronouncing her "l"s as "w"s--as the disgusting Ming Ming insists on doing in a misguided attempt at cuteness? I will hunt down the producers of this show and do them terrible violence.

I love YO GABBA GABBA. I don't care what you say, DJ Lance, Muno, Broby, Foofa, Toodie and Plex have taught my daughter many valuable lessons--like the desirability of napping, for one. Not to throw objects at Daddy's skull. Not biting. The value of "trying again" and "not giving up." All set to surprisingly weird, offbeat songs which--in another venue and with other lyrics, one might find oneself enjoying at a club. They get good indie bands as guests, and Mark Mothersbaugh of DEVO is a regular. I know every song and every lyric by heart.

BLUE'S CLUES I can take or leave. I do greatly prefer the episodes hosted by "Steve" to the ones featuring the seemingly overplucked and man-scaped "Joe". BLUE'S ROOM, a cynical brand expansion of the original show--with puppets--sucks. Blue's charm in the original was that she didn't talk. In BLUE'S ROOM she does. To ill effect.

All parents must, sooner or later, come to terms with DORA THE EXPLORER and her alleged "cousin", DIEGO. I've always found their relationship suspicious at best. And who is this kid, Diego, anyway? Where are his parents? How does he get to run around unsupervised in the jungle? And isn't he too young to have a driver's license? If not--then he's certainly too goddamn old to be hanging out with Dora!! I do like the "Rescue Pack" song, however. And my daughter's affection for these kissin' cousins is unwavering. So much so that I brought her to see Dora "Live" at Radio City--which is to throw oneself into a Skittle scented mosh pit filled with thousands and thousands of screaming kids and their mothers. At every appearance of the rascally fox, "Swiper", the walls shake like a high-pitched Nuremberg rally of sticky children , screaming "SWIPER NO SWIPING" in unison--as avidly as any cries of "Duce!" or worse. But...there's no arguing with true love. All kids love Dora and Diego--and the sooner we resign ourselves to that, the easier it'll go for us.
I like OSWALD just fine. LITTLE BILL is kinda charming and sweet--and relentlessly teaches good values. I"m okay with MAGGIE AND THE FEROCIOUS BEAST. That spider show is pretty cool.

I like NI HAO KAI LAN because my daughter loves it--and because any show that teaches her Mandarin is probably a good thing--preparing her for the day that this will be the language of our future masters. I like that Kai Lan's Granpa, "Ye-Ye" is always cooking dumplings. Not so crazy about Kai Lan's little friend Toli. He strikes me as a maladjusted, whining little shit--always acting out in hopes of getting special attention and sympathy. She should drop that little koala **** until they adjust his meds and hang out more with her tiger friend Rintu--or the more outgoing and well adjusted Ho-Ho. Every episode that Kai Lan persists in enabling her deeply disturbed, panda-obsessed, passive-aggressive little friend only teaches her impressionable audience that just pouting long enough will get you what you want. Time for tough love for Toli.

LAZYTOWN? This show totally creeps me out. In this candy colored ode to eugenics, live action "Sporticus" matches wits with the malevolent "Robbie Rotten" among various puppets in a stylized village populated by a credulous and generally helpless populace of Untermenschen, all of whom look to their blimp-dwelling hero as their unelected leader. . "Sporticus" is played by millionaire areobic champion and owner of an Icelandic gym franchise--who also produces, directs, designs the puppets--according to the credits, there's nothing he doesn't do--and the message, constantly reinforced throughout every episode is that the answer to all life's problems is relentless exercise, narcissistic exhibitionism--personified by muscle flexing, gratuitous displays of aerobics, and taking credit for everything. We are all helpless bivalves, waiting for a well-cut Uber Man to rescue us in Lazytown. It's a textbook showcase for apparent pathological narcissism. I find the show creepy and somehow...evil. Exactly how, I'm not sure yet. But I keep my kid away from it like caustic drain cleaner.

There's no keeping her away, however, from the bombardment of promos and songs from the painful and excrutiating industry created entity known as the "FRESH BEAT BAND." At the end of every other Nick Jr. or Noggin show, for the last few months, they've been pounding us silly, trying to introduce audiences to the music and antics of this hyperactively peppy music and dance group. Until a few weeks ago, they were being touted as the "JUMPAROUNDS" --then, perhaps, some office wag was overheard referring to them as the "ReachArounds" and a sudden name change was instituted over night--as if the previous campaign had never occured. (Causing, no doubt, untold psychological damage and confusion to their young, vulnerable fans). Not to be too cruel--but one of the "kids" in this bunch looks like a 32 year old masquerading as a teen. The lead "singer" (meaning, I gather, he moves his lips obligingly when called upon to do so) has the dead eyes of a man at the end of his string. The "rapper", a tall, gawky young man, throws himself into his moves with the urgency of someone who wants never to fill another fixin's bar--whatever the cost to his soul. It's a genuinely uncomfortable mash up of "street" affectations, "grown up" moves from MTV,and adults and children --that feels (to me, anyway) sleazy and exploitative. I fear the worst. That my daughter will love it.

While Miley and the Jonas Brothers--with any luck--will be in rehab or jail by the time my little girl is at the target age for their brand of hijinks, these FRESH BEAT creatures have me worried.

A few days earlier, after four hours of hacking our way through jungle in the Darien Gap, two out of three cameras went down and out for the duration-victims of the unbelievable heat and humidity. Our small crew found ourselves standing there, stained blue with tribal markings, in a village without electricity, no means of communication, the only way of getting to anything resembling a town, a ride in a hollowed out piragua down a shallow, fast-moving river. It had taken us four hours to get up river from Sambu. And there'd been no cell signal their either. Problem.

Enter heroic segment producer Diane Schutz, who volunteered to float an hour down river to an even tinier and more remote village, machete her way an hour and a half uphill through some of the most impenetrable jungle in the world, to what was fabled to be a hilltop "hot spot." How this three bar situation in the middle of dense jungle was discovered, we had no idea-or even whether it actually existed. What was known for sure was that the jungle teemed with deadly fer-de-lance snakes, the dreaded "bushmaster," vampire bats, bugs carrying dengue fever, malaria and other things you definitely don't want to catch-and the occasional happy, heavily armed band of FARC guerillas, resting up in the Darien in between kidnappings and general banditry across the border in Colombia.

The Lonely Planet Guide, discussing what happens if you are lost on a trail in the Darien bluntly describes you as "a goner." But on a wing and a prayer, brave Diane ventured out into the wild, hoping to find the spot and call New York so that at least by the time we got back to Panama City, somebody would be on the way with replacement cameras. The outcome of this foolhardy mission was uncertain at best. The return, against the current, difficult. This after having just returned from humping a pack up and down mountains and across slimy log bridges for four hours. But off she went.

When I look back on my life and career from some sputum stained hospital bed or while waiting for them to pry me from the wreckage of a car ...or in the final seconds of consciousness after I slump to the ground while waiting on line for my fruit cup at Century Village, I'll look back on the Montana show with no small amount of pride. I will smile and be proud that I had the honor, the privilege, the sheer joy of having Jim Harrison on NO RESERVATIONS. Jim is one of America's greatest authors, poets, screenwriters-a gourmand of legendary reputation and a personality so big it's barely contained by the landscape. I'll be grateful that a painting by the awesome Russell Chatham now hangs on my wall. That fishing guide, wilderness cook, jack-of-all trades Dan Lahren showed me around. And that I got to spend many happy hours drinking at one of the world's finest saloons, The Murray Bar.

Turns out they eat real well in Livingston, Montana, one of the world's truly great towns in one of its most beautiful places. Seems like everybody's got a freezer full of antelope liver. Livingston's 2nd Street Bistro serves a meal on a par with any great city-often with better ingredients-and you're just as likely to see a cowboy foraging for fresh morels as an ex-hippie in a pick-up with a gun rack.

When you see idiots on TV talking about the "real America," they're both talking about the Paradise Valley-and not understanding it at all. Livingston confounds any attempt to stereotype the West.

I think that of the shows being aired this summer, this is the best we've done so far. And it's gonna be hard to top.
What I see in this Thailand show is the best producing, best photography and best editing in a single episode in quite some time . All the things the shooters have been working at--all the new equipment innovations, strategies and tactics--everything we've learned seemed to come to fruition on this one. Add to this mix an editor who saw the footage and understood right away not just what the road team had hoped for and what we'd been inspired by while in Thailand, but the possibilities for some really innovative visual storytelling.

I'm guessing, too, that it'll be a fairly divisive show. But that comes with the territory. When we shoot in a place with as deep and as varied and as powerful a tradition of good cooking like Thailand, it's guaranteed that a very large number of fans (particularly those with Thai backgrounds) are going to feel like we criminally overlooked something absolutely essential.

"How could you go to Bangkok and not eat (fill in blank here)."

I also strongly suspect that Eric Rivera--the last of the finalists from last year's FAN-atic special competition to appear on the show--will come under fire--like Dania, Augusto and Nelson. Making TV with me has, apparently, a significant downside when you're talking about a subject as personal and as deeply felt as food.

Eric got us to re-visit Thailand (though we'd done shows there for the previous series). He introduced us to some really great people, made things happen for us that we otherwise couldn't have seen or done. He worked like a rented mule even when he wasn't in the scene--carrying equipment, acting as grip, helping to hang lights. And most significantly, he knowingly walked into a situation where he knew that he was going to get his ass seriously kicked by a guy half his size--in front of an eventual TV audience of millions of people. And by kicked--I mean literally kicked--repeatedly--like..in the head. In hundred degree heat.
All day long.

Dania, Augusto and Nelson got beat up on the Internet for what they did or didn't do on this show. But they didn't wake up with bruises and swelling the next day like Eric.

Some other heroic efforts I'd like to acknowledge here:
Cameramen Todd Liebler and Zach Zamboni who danced around in that boxing ring for hours and hours in the heat while holding cameras. Who shot in the rain, in mud, literally up to their groins, on leaking, pitching wooden boats in really bad weather. Beset by testicle-seeking monkeys. Best. Camera work. Ever.

Producer Tom Vitale, who snuck out and did some guerilla-style shooting during the height of the state of emergency in Thailand. These were, as you might imagine, moments of extreme uncertainty. Barricades of hijacked buses and trucks on fire, violent confrontations between heavily armed military and protesters. Actual shootings. Assassination attempts. Government ministers being dragged out of their cars and beaten by angry mobs. What looked at the time like it could be a coup, a revolution...or worse. It was a dumb-ass thing to do, go looking for a riot. But brilliantly and heroically dumb-ass. The kind of dumb-ass we like. Plus, he got the shots. I'm sure our local contacts will be unhappy with the fact that we show this aspect of what was going on when we were in their country. They clearly tried their best to keep us away from it. But I dearly hope that what people see on this episode will in no way discourage them from visiting.

There is no place like Thailand. It is one of the greatest of foodie destinations and in marked contrast to the violence of their national sport--and the occasional outbreak of political strife, one of the least dangerous, most gentle and tolerant places I've ever been. Thailand, in my experience, is a country where a visitor can pretty much wander at will without anything resembling a plan, eating everything in sight, relying completely on the kindness of strangers--and only good things will happen.

Back in New York, editor Eric Lasby, got to sink his teeth into some really sweet footage. And did so with relish. I think the work he did on this episode is a ****kin' masterpiece. I love getting happy, confident e-mails from editors early on in post production.

After this blog entry is done, I'm packing my Deet, my jungle boots and my rain poncho and heading for the airport for what I'm told is gonna be a fairly rough few nights in the Panamanian jungle. I'm guessing no mini-bar.

This week's "Special" episode is a compendium of footage, shot over time around the world, celebrating the joys, delights (and occasional perils) of street food.
Basically? It's a clip show.

The thing I'm proudest of on this show is not what's seen on the screen. It's what you hear on the soundtrack: Now, ordinarily, we can't afford to use music from my favorite albums. Or ANY albums, for that matter. It's a ridiculous amount of money to get the rights to even the most innocuous of songs. For a long time, even the singing of "Happy Birthday" during a scene--or played on a jukebox in the background, could cost you BIG money. We're a tiny, five person crew, shooting entirely on small DV cameras with homemade jibs, using bags of rice and skateboards as dollies. We can't afford even "Happy Birthday!"

There have been, over the years, many times when I have fantasized wistfully about how great it would be if only we could use this song or that.
So imagine my absolute surprise and joy when I found out that after a hail-Mary, stab-in-the-dark, personal appeal to Iggy Pop, that he'd allowed us to use the dark, amazing song "Down On The Street" from my favorite album ever: The Stooges' awesome pre-punk classic, "Fun House". Though I do not know you, sir, Thanks, Jim.

********

" Thing about a shark, he's got lifeless eyes...black eyes...like a doll's eyes. When he comes at you, doesn't seem to be livin' ..until he bites you--and those black eyes roll over white, and then you hear that terrible high pitched screamin'...the ocean turns red..."
Robert Shaw (as Quint) in Jaws

So, I get invited to a movie premier. This doesn't happen a lot and it's for Julie/Julia, and I happen to be very sentimental on the subject of Julia Child . The book "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" has a sort of totemic place in my personal history--as it does, I'm sure, for millions of others. I am also a big Stanley Tucci fan. He directed and co-starred in the single best live action film on the restaurant business (Big Night) and there was certainly no reason to believe that Meryl Streep couldn't "do" Julia. ( Of course she can.) But that's not the point of this tale.The next morning, I'm still trying to reconstruct the exact progression, the details, like trying to remember the license plate of the truck that hit me. Only this wasn't any normal truck. This was far more terrifying and traumatic an event than being smashed by the grill of a Peterbilt, pulled up into the wheel well, dragged for a while, only to have my shredded remnants left by the side of the road, wondering, in my last moments of consciousness, "What the hell happened?" I'm pretty sure, judging by the vestigial ectoplasm on my jacket that I was sideswiped by pure evil.

I'm standing there by the boeuf bourgignonne station, sucking down martinis with my wife (they drink a LOT of martinis in the movie), minding my own business, having an innocent chat with some friends, when I notice someone has their hand on me. An icy, tendril of fear runs down my spine. I turn and find myself looking straight into the deceptively attractive and reasonable looking face of Sandra Lee.
To make matters worse--and more.....uncomfortable, she's standing next to her boyfriend, Andrew Cuomo, the Attorney General of the State of New York.

Now, I've said some unkind things over the years about Sandra. Far too many and far too terrible things to ever apologize for. Plus, I pretty much meant every word. Once you've seen Sandra making Kwanzaa Cake on YouTube, there's no backing down . My head is reeling with the thought that one phone call from Cuomo and my last twenty years of tax returns are getting audited . I'm paralyzed, wondering what the statute of limitations is on various things I may or may not have done twenty years ago. Sandra is talking. I know this cause her lips are moving and she's saying--overtly anyway, nice things. Like "You're a very naughty man," and she's chatting amiably with my wife. But one hand is picking over me like the meat buyer at Peter Luger selecting a rib section--like some demonic bird of prey is poking and prodding, deciding where the weakest, most tender point of entry is, giving, as I recall, a point by point review of her investigations to my wife--who ordinarily, I have to say, would have been across the table with a tomahawk chop elbow to the top of the skull by now, but who, like me, sits mesmerized and grinning insanely, frozen by the ..bizarrenessof the moment which seems to go on forever as Sandra's hand wanders upward, tugs an ear lobe and asks if my ears are red yet. (They were.) Having had her way with me, she leaves the emptied husk of my carcass teetering at the table and moves on.

I felt like the victim of a drive-by shooting. "What just..happened?" I said with a weak, trembly voice. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the quiet but very thorough disembowelment that had just occurred. Nothing. It had looked, to anyone who'd care to notice, like any other cocktail party conversation--but I knew better. I had looked into those eyes. I'd seen. Oh, she was smiling all right, but I'm pretty damn sure you could have dragged a rusty butterknife across my carotid artery right there at the table and her expression would not have changed, maybe only the eyes, they'd roll over white as I geysered onto the chafing dishes.

As we say on the show all the time, "What have we learned today?"

I learned that were a nuclear weapon to fall on New York, I'm pretty sure that if no one else, Sandra Lee would survive to clamber out of the rubble. That if it came down to a fight over the last can of food, she would surely emerge the victor.

I learned that I am truly and deeply afraid of her. And I'm pretty sure she's a Democrat.

The show not about a place, or even places, per se. It's certainly not a well-rounded introduction to the food scenes of Baltimore or Detroit or Buffalo. And it's probably not what the respective chambers of commerce of these three fine, noble and deeply troubled American cities would like us to see right now. Baltimore, arguably, isn't even really a "Rust Belt" city.
I like to think that tonight's episode celebrates that particularly American character -- who proudly survives and thrives in places like late era Baltimore, Detroit and Buffalo. And it does introduce a few quirky indigenous specialties.

Each city has its own sort of twisted, wonderful, off-beat sense of humor, its own injured but still strong pride -- and I guess, that's what this show is about. It's about places where the American dream has fallen a little short -- as seen through my eyes -- and those of my old Russian buddy, Zamir -- a guy who should know how much worse things can really get. I didn't originally know if I was doing Zamir a favor when I invited him along on this adventure. He IS, after all, the man who made me an Enemy of the State in Romania. But I did get a sense that his odd admixture of indefatigable optimism, his birthright Russian fatalism, and his unquenchable appetite for new opportunities might make him the perfect person to appreciate these places a new.

Baltimore, in particular, needed a fresh set of eyes. My own view had been negatively (and entirely unfairly) skewed by an unhappy period in the 1980's when I was briefly employed in Charm City. I was the one junkie in Baltimore too dumb to find heroin there -- and had to commute to New York for my ever increasing needs. I told this story to "Snoop" Pearson by the wa y-- to peals of laughter. I gathered from our conversation that in the past, she has some familiarity with the retail end of that business. As we cruised West Baltimore in her white Escalade, much merriment was had at my expense. In spite of the fact that she was raised in the very worst part, under the very worst circumstances, she loves her hometown.

Jay Landsman, legendary murder police, role model for the Detective Munch character on Homicide and then Law and Order, also for the "Jay Landsman" character on The Wire -- also (confusingly enough) an actor on that series, also loves Baltimore. Jay the cop and Snoop, the killer share that mutant form of only-in-America success, where one moves unexpectedly and seamlessly from the real world to television -- playing (basically) oneself. In fact, between Jay, Snoop, Nelson Starr and Zamir, this process also became something of a theme.

There has been predictable apprehension about this show on blogs and in the Baltimore press -- from the same folks, I suspect, who were less than pleased with The Wire9 9s portrayal of their town. They probably don't find much to love in the early, hilariously funny works of John Waters either. Like it or not, I would say to them, those are your ambassadors. You made them. The greatest dramatic series in the history of television (whose subject, to be fair, is really much larger than Baltimore), and a great, filthily funny auteur -- the John Ford of the American underbelly. Neither could have happened anywhere else. It was the uniquely Bawlmer sense of humor, the dark, cultish attractions of the sinister sounding "lake trout" (which I first heard about on The Wire), that brought me back to Baltimore, a city I once had little interest in revisiting. It was Multiple Maniacs and Female Trouble and Jay Landsman and Felicia Pearson and the world David Simon created that made Baltimore a "must visit" destination for me.

I think that troubled cities often tragically misinterpret what's coolest about themselves. They scramble for cure-alls, something that will "attract business", always one convention center, one pedestrian mall or restaurant district away from revival. They miss their biggest, best and probably most marketable asset: their unique and slightly off-center character. Few people go to New Orleans because it's a "normal" city -- or a "perfect" or "safe" one. They go because it's crazy, borderline dysfunctional, permissive, shabby, alcoholic and bat shit crazy -- and because it looks like nowhere else. Cleveland is one of my favorite cities. I don't arrive there with a smile on my face every time because of the Cleveland Philarmonic.

I arrived in Baltimore apprehensive. I left a fan. And in case you're wondering, blue crabs were out of season.

Detroit. Where just about everything cool originated. As angry as one gets looking at block after block of abandoned row houses in Baltimore and wondering how the hell that happened, it's mind boggling to see how far Detroit has been allowed to fall. But what a truly magnificent breed of crazy-ass hardcase characters have dug in there. Of all three cities we visited, Detroit, oddly enough, even while looking the jaws of death straight in the face, remains closest to being a true culinary wonderland. This is due entirely to the successive waves of migration and immigration from all over the world, when people came to MAKE things in America -- each group bringing their own food and traditions. Detroit IS the story of America, for better -- and worse, and I think we've missed that, allowed ourselves to look away. Detroit, after all, made us who we are. Literally. A country of cars, highways, car culture, upward mobility, rock and roll, rhythm and blues, and what were once, unlimited dreams. Whatever happens next, Motown, Eminem and the Stooges' "Fun House", at least, shall surely outlast the automobile.

Back in the days of our FAN-atic special, Nelson Starr could have pitched us on anyplace on earth. He had the camera, the talented video personnel, technical skills, the smarts, and sense of humor to make a very entertaining and compelling presentation that could have convinced us to take him to Bali..or Rio... Instead? He pitched his hometown of Buffalo. In winter, no less. You have to respect that. It certainly made an impression on me. What's seldom mentioned when discussing Buffalo is how beautiful it is, especially in winter...The tiny red neon lights of the saloons inviting in the snow and the dark. Another delightfully demented breed of hard drinking gastronomes ... And, it turns out, a sizeable Zamir Gotta fan club. Yes, I'm quite sure there's somebody's idea of "better" beef-on-wek somewhere else ... and that we missed (fill in blank here) and that there's somebody doing really excellent fine dining across town, but again, this misses the point.

One of the "take-aways" from this show, I hope, is that people who might never in a million years have considered Buffalo as a place to visit, will say "Hey! Buffalo actually looks pretty cool!" Like Cleveland, it's become a sentimental favorite.

True, the show was also nominated for Best Non-Fiction program, a category which brings glory, presumably, to all of us who work at Zero Point Zero Productions.

Chris Collins and Lydia Tenaglia, my friends and partners and fellow creators of this whole enterprise most of all. But they're always getting nominated for stuff -- and winning too: For that other excellent show they make: Gourmet's Diary of a Foodie.

It's veteran shooters Zach Zamboni and Todd Liebler I thought instantly about. And our poor, tormented editor, Jesse Fisher, usually isolated from society behind an always-closed door, hunched in front of his blinking screen ... I thought of them, imagined them loaded with swag bags, careening drunkenly down the red carpet, Todd inadvertently crushing Ryan Seacrest's tiny foot beneath his heroic hoof, blundering magnificently towards destiny and his gold statuette. Jesse, ordering up Mai Tai's, cases of grapefruit and Gerber Mini-Magnums from the pool at the Chateau Marmont (and charging them to Lindsey Lohan's room).

At various low moments on the road: one camera down, weather turned suddenly to shit, sidekick slumped over into incoherent heap, power failure, threatened military coup, diarrhea, cloud of mosquitos, war (the sort of travellers annoyances that pop up from time to time), it has become a recurring practice of mine to cheer on the crew with the well-worn comment, "I ...smell...EMMY!"

As often as I meant it in a facetious, sarcastic, embittered, "What-the-hell-are-we-doing-here--this scene is a wash" kind of a way, I did mean it for real. Because the truth is, the level of camera work and editing on this show has been getting steadily better every year. The shooters have been busting their asses -- pushing themselves -- often under truly ridiculous conditions -- to get better and better looking shots, to frame and compose and capture them in exciting new ways.

This has involved the development of some really extraordinary (often jury rigged, homemade) equipment and rigging and a lot more time, effort and sheer physical endurance to make optimal use of it all. Zach and Todd have been all over the world with me, hanging out of helicopters, strapped to the roofs of cars, riding backwards on horses, bombing downhill on skateboards while holding cameras, and humping an ever heavier load of improvised steadi-cams, gyros, monitors, and long, mutant lenses around in sub-tropical heat, hip deep mud and driving rain. I've come to learn that if they ask me to "do it again -- slowly," (walk down a street, up a hill, down the stairs, over a cliff), I may hate to hear it, but if a guy carrying about 35 pounds more than me insists he wants to do it again (and backwards in his case), then, it's probably for a pretty good reason. I'm guessing he sees something pretty goddamned through that lens.

It's a very good feeling seeing a happy cameraman on this show. They get this look from behind the lens and I can see that they're picturing how what's happening now is going to look after 9 weeks of editing and post-production and how they can possibly make that eventual outcome even better ... It's nice to stand on a bamboo bridge, early in the morning in Luang Prabang, mist rising off the river and just know that this is going to be great.

As a story teller it's a joy to know that all these talented and creative people are around me to help find new and exciting and ever changing ways to tell those stories.

All the veteran editors on the show; Jesse Fisher, Eric Lasby, Chris Martinez and Dave Robinson are an inestimably important component of the finished show ... All the great photography in the world, the best story, all that would be useless without the people back in those dark cubicles in New York -- all of whom have their own signature styles and strengths-- who put it all together in compelling and thrillingly manipulative ways. In the end, it's the editing that tells us how to feel about what we see. Its powers are extraordinary -- the seemingly simple process of putting one shot after another. And choosing and laying in the music. Those juxtapositions absolutely rule the finished work.

For me, to be able to stand on that bridge in Laos, aware that Zach's shooting from one angle--and Todd wandering around on the far bank getting B-roll -- and knowing how good they are at what they do, to imagine what they might be getting on tape, to know who's likely to be editing the finished footage is an inspiration. It alternately allows me to tell stories I might never have been able to tell -- or (alternately) saves my ass when I can't even see a story in what we're doing.

I've worked so long with these guys, that I find myself sometimes, writing sentences in my head, just by looking at where they're pointing their lenses. I'm guessing -- I hope -- I'm pretty damn sure that these nominations mean a lot to the people who work so hard to make this show. You might swing over to the section on this site called Meet The Crew to see what these people look like. Someone missing from that rogues gallery is Paul Cabana, who produced the Laos episode -- and who graciously appeared in any number of episodes as "Asian Number #7." A while back the bastard went off to work in the real world. We missed him then. Now we have even more reason to miss him.

Whether we actually win anything or not? I have no clue. But I'm pretty sure we get some cool swag bags. And I'm hoping the network will pay for mini-bar.

Already filmed for Season SIX, are episodes in Brittany and Provence. And sometime in August, our intrepid crew will head out once again to destinations which may or may not include Prague, the Central Highlands of Viet Nam, Iran, Rome, Ecuador, Cuba, Kerala India, China, Maine,Turkey, the Congo ... and a return to Beirut (among others).

My daughter quickly tore into the grapes, saving me from the humiliating business of doing an impromptu "Dancy Dance" from Yo Gabba Gabba (a strategy that has been known to work in situations of similar extremis). I thank you for your kindness to someone who has shown you no good reason for such a thing, your good humor -- and for appreciating the New York Dolls.

I will honor the sentiments of your note and promise to see to it that no puppies are hurt, killed or otherwise inconvenienced during my remaining time on television. Given my frequent trips to countries where the line between "pets" and "food" can become somewhat ...confusing, this is easier said than done -- and might well lead to some socially awkward moments. But one good turn, I think, deserves another.

Best,

Anthony Bourdain

There's a heartbreaking bit of business in "The Wrestler" (one of many small, sad and all-too-real touches). Mickey Rourke, playing broken down, way-past-his-prime wrestler, Randy "the Ram" Robinson, finishes up a bout, changes out of his tights and packs them away -- then toddles out of the locker room dragging a wheeled carry-on suitcase behind him. That tiny, minor note hit me hard, watching it on pay-per-view somewhere between New York and some where else, a spongy hotel bed with the climate control churning out a jet engine roar, a shaky, trilling sound as the mini-bar's compressor kicked in. That damn suitcase -- looking particularly tragic trailing behind Rourke's freakish, giant, action-figure bulk reminded me of well ...me.

Spent the next few days of travel, most for one night stand speaking gigs, feeling particularly sorry for myself. Shecky Green's World Tour. Lemme tell you, by the time the movie got around to introducing Randy's agonizingly dysfunctional relationship with his estranged daughter, I was ready to throw a belt over the shower head. So it's very good timing that the next episode of NO RESERVATIONS -- and the last new one of Season 5 (part #1) is shot in Viet Nam. (season 5 part #2 episodes will continue this summer).

It's no mystery to anyone who knows me, or has ever heard me speak publicly, or ever read my books that I'm utterly besotted with Viet Nam. And as I may also have mentioned, I plan to spend a year there sooner or later. This show coming up is a sentimental return to Saigon -- where I first touched ground in-country back in 2000, a settling up of business with a much loved, departed friend, a reunion with Philippe Lajaunie, my former boss at Les Halles and my sidekick on those first heady days of making television for "A Cook's Tour." It's also a trip to the historic village of Hoi An and surrounding countryside for purposes of acquainting myself with the area -- the housing market in particular. Can I live there? Will my family be happy? (My little girl-by then age three -- or three and a half -- most importantly.) Will she like the new neighborhood? That's what the show's about. Another episode in my continuing love affair with Viet Nam.

In a "shot rich" environment like Viet Nam, where (it seems) every place you point a camera appears (to the non-professional shooter, anyway) to be a perfectly framed work of art, our magnificently talented crew tends to do its best work. Whether it's some subliminal siren song whispering "cable Ace ...cable Ace ...Emmy for photography ..." or just a grim determination to get plenty of good stuff on tape, I can't say. The mind of the professional shooter is a strange, dark -- and sometimes, disturbing place. The less deeply we penetrate it, I have come to believe, the better for all of us. Suffice to say that for whatever motive, long time NR veterans Todd Leibler and Jerry Risius -- and producers Tom and Jared were up and out early every day, standing knee deep in rice paddies shooting water buffaloes, following food stall proprietors on their early morning market rounds, humping their equipment across deserted beaches, onto boats, sitting backwards on precariously balanced motorbikes while tearing through traffic, walking backwards through crowded fish markets, and generally working their asses off.

Some episodes I tend to take more personally than others -- resulting in an elevated level of involvement in the post-production process. How welcome this heightened interest and resulting barrage of helpful suggestions, torrent of notes, witheringly sarcastic e-mails and late-night epiphany-inspired creative ideas are, I can only guess. But for better or worse, Viet Nam was one of these episodes in which I took a close interest.

Back in New York, producer Tom Vitale and editor Eric Lasby managed to put together an amazing hour of television containing all those elements which make this show truly special: great pre-production, great sidekicks on the ground, some of the best goddamn camera-work anywhere, truly inspired editing, sharp and under-appreciated creative post-production work. It's nice to have a "vision," a point of view and an affecting story to tell. But it don't mean shit without a team who can actually make it all happen.

Just as Viet Nam is a country who -- when I first encountered her -- exceeded my wildest and most unreasonably romantic fantasies and expectations, the crack team of ZPZ producers, shooters, editors and post-production people usually manages to exceed my movie-saturated hopes for the show. I hope -- I think -- I'm pretty sure that after viewing this episode, you'll get a taste of what it's like to tear happily across a paddy-dike road on a scooter in the late afternoon light of central Viet Nam. That you'll get a glimmer of some of those aspects of the country, the culture, the people and the food that I love so deeply and understand why I want so badly to live there.

On a completely off-subject note, I read something really disturbing while leafing through a magazine in my most recent airport. Rachael Ray, it appears, when booking acts for her South by Southwest indie rock-meets-sloppy Joes fest, invited the New York Dolls to perform. THE NEW YORK DOLLS!! It is an article of faith with me that the Dolls were one of the greatest, most important, criminally neglected, wildly influential bands in the history of well ...the freakin' UNIVERSE!! Most of the original members (in keeping with truest rock and roll tradition) are dead. But David Johansen and Syl Sylvain are still out there, hustling a living in a cold, cruel world. And if anybody deserves steady work, a new generation of fans, buckets of money (something they never had) and elevation to icon status-it's these guys.

This development ...following hot on the heels of Rachael saying nice things about me on Nightline has caused me no small amount of confusion, panic, and misery. I don't know whether to go out and shoot a puppy-or send Rachael a fruit basket. It just does me no good at all to think of Rachael as a Dolls fan. It's really only a matter of time now until my daughter looks up from her grilled cheese and says "Yummo!!"

Only repeated viewings of Sandra Lee on YouTube slathering canned frosting on her "Kwaanza Cake" with an insane glint in her eye (a piece of video every American should see as a cautionary exercise-like a particularly gruesome highway safety film) can make me feel like I'm playing for the right team.

Peter Luger? You can have it. Grand Central Oyster Bar? Good luck. The places featured on this show just happen to be institutions. They just happen to be old. Newer, more ... pragmatic enterprises couldn't or wouldn't do what they're doing. Most -- if not all -- of the places featured on this episode are dinosaurs, among the last of mostly extinct herds who, once long ago, ruled New York's concrete jungle. But these remaining eateries, though perhaps no longer "culturally relevant," and certainly not "hip" -- and about as far from "trendy" or "hot" as anything could be, are in fact what make New York special. All are still great after all these years.

I contend they deserve love and respect from anyone serious about food or about having a good time. Good food is always "relevant." Manganaro's Grosseria and the awesome time warp of a French restaurant, Le Veau D'Or are businesses who would very likely be more profitable selling sneakers or tube socks or designer cupcakes. They hang on -- in a particularly unfriendly economic climate -- for the simple reason that they're owned by magnificently stubborn people who happen to own their buildings. Manganaro's is a bit of vintage Italian-America that people raised on a more al dente, post-Batali, Northern-inflected, lightly sauced, meatball-free, an Italian might not appreciate. But it's a vital step back in time, another world, and an essential one to remember and to cherish.

If you don't like the spaghetts with red sauce and meatballs in the back dining area at Manganaro's? If you don't "get it?" You're just not drinking enough red wine. There is better French food in New York these days than what they're serving at Le Veau D'Or. But if you can't have one of the kooky-great times of your life at this absolutely untouched by time frog pond -- with its delightfully irony-free, 60-year-old menu? Then you really have no true love for French food -- and certainly nothing resembling a heart. It's the bistro that time forgot -- a last link to a golden age of tableside carving, curly parsley as state of the art garnish and desserts seen last in the pages of the Larrousse Gastronomique. Snobs will no doubt carp that Katz's has been covered to death on TV and in films -- and they will groan (accurately enough) that every damn lazy-ass food writer from elsewhere, looking to cover the "real" New York (in an afternoon) will write about their few bites of pastrami at this downtown institution, make a few oblique and obligatory "When Harry Met Sally" references and move on. But there's a reason Marco Pierre White, for instance, loves the place -- and why so many people keep going back: not JUST because they "don't make 'em like that anymore" -- but because it's damn good pastrami. Period.

The herring and smoked and cured fish they sell at Russ & Daughters would be just as desirable if the store were a spanking new gourmet shop -- instead of a century old institution which grew up from a street cart. The product speaks for itself. Russ & Daughters occupies that rare and tiny place on the mountaintop reserved for those who are not just the oldest and the last -- but also the best. I do make allowances for personal history, for the sentimental attachments and willful blindness that comes with growing up with a particular kind of food. At Hop Kee in Chinatown, I was -- before moving on to the more delicious and authentic delights of the "phantom menu" (supposedly reserved for Chinese patrons) -- unable to resist the charms of the clunky, corn-starchy kwailo classics I first encountered as a kid. It had been a long, long time since I'd had an egg roll, or won ton soup, or a scary-bright sweet and sour pork -- and by this time, after having eaten all over China, Hong Kong, Singapore and Taiwan -- that old style "not really Chinese" stuff had become genuinely exotic again. For those of you less inclined to nostalgia, I highly recommend the whole flounder and the crabs.

The show closes talking about the changing face of drinking in New York with the dangerously talented, equally dangerous to know Nick Tosches. He's written some of the greatest biographies ever (on Dean Martin, Sonny Liston, Jerry Lee Lewis) among other good works, all of which which I strongly urge you to check out. "Legend" is not an inappropriate word to use when describing Tosches. His book "Hand of Dante" is, I think, the only novel I've ever seen published with a cautionary band and parental advisory outside the jacket.

And while I'm referring you elsewhere, may I suggest clicking on the "Meet The Crew" feature on this site? Getting to know a little about the incredible mix of talented people who produce, direct, shoot and edit NO RESERVATIONS will, I think, explain a lot about why it's so different from every other food or travel show. The "Crew Blog" and "Ask the Crew" sections are also of interest to anyone wanting to understand the highs, and lows and technical arcania of the Chanko Experience.

Lastly, I want to thank Augusto Elefano for getting my sorry ass to finally make the trip to the Philippines. I would not have done it without his final push. He and his family were lovely to me and my crew -- and the fact that they were a bit shy with cameras jammed in their faces -- if anything -- speaks well of them. I'd rather a shy, thoughtful guy, telling me something real about himself than an "expert" professional anytime. Thanks as well, to Claude, Ivan and special shout out to MarketMan -- whose preparations for the Cebu lechon extravaganza made the filming of Apocalypse Now look quick and easy.

I'm all too aware of the fact that the country is made up of over seven THOUSAND islands and that I visited exactly two of them. The food is intensely regional ... I mean, even the difference between the food in Manila and Pampanga -- only a couple of hours away --is striking. So I missed ... a lot.

I'm very aware of how many Filipino fans we have -- and how enthusiastic they are about us (finally) covering their country. I wanted very badly to do a good job on this one. But I fear there's no way we got it "right."

Not that I didn't have a great time. I did.

For one thing, I settled a karmic debt of sorts: Augusto Elefano, who'd argued so fervently for his country of ancestry on the previous season's FAN-atic special had been sent home short of the prize after a brutal interrogation at my hands. Impressed by his zeal and feeling guilty about smashing his hopes and dreams I felt that Cebu would be good to see through his eyes. So we packed him, his wife and baby daughter onto a plane -- and sent them off into TV Land.

What we did get right, I'm quite sure, was making sure that the amazing, porky delights of "sisig" got plenty of camera time. If you've never had this divine mosaic of pig parts, chopped and served sizzling and crisp on one side on a screaming hot platter, then you've yet to have one of the world's best beer drinking dishes. And speaking of pig? It can now be said that of all the whole roasted pigs I've had all over the world, the slow roasted lechon I had on Cebu was the best. This puts the standings in the Hierarchy of Pork as follows:

#1. Philippines

#2. Bali

#3. Puerto Rico

If nothing else, I hope that homesick Filipinos living abroad get a glimpse of some of the food and scenery they've no doubt been missing. And for viewers who weren't previously familiar with the wide and tasty spectrum of flavors available over there, I hope the sight of me shoving a lot of very tasty stuff into my maw provides -- if nothing else -- inspiration to look further.

Closer to home, I have a problem: My obsession with the HBO series "The Wire" is taking an unhealthy turn. I recently bought the DVD boxed set -- all 60 hours of the show -- as well as "The Corner" the previous six part mini-series by the same writer/producers. I'm rewatching them all from beginning to end and just can't stop. It's like if I watch them closely, I'll somehow figure out how writing can be so good -- how an ensemble of mostly little known actors and a mammoth, wildly ambitious progression of story arcs can make a whole city come vividly, tragically alive. It's funny, exciting, excrutiatingly sad and always, always feels real. I can't tear myself away.

Gotta go. Omar and Brother Monzon are making their move on Stringer Bell ... I love this part.

With Monday night's special, FOOD PORN, "encouraging such a concern" is exactly what we were going for. Just swap the word "food" for "sexual."

The old definition of "obscenity" was material which knowingly or intentionally inspires "prurient interest," which has "no redeeming or artistic value" and that was pretty much the plan here. To make the most obscene, graphic, explicit and content-free hour of television ever attempted -- without (technically) depicting sexual matters -- or even using profanity. It's something food programming has been dodging around the edges of since its inception -- and I thought: Why mess around?

The rules of food TV and the rules of porn are so strikingly similar, why not get STRAIGHT TO THE ACTION as they say on your On Demand menu in every major hotel chain. Forget about the "walk-in," to "set-up," the "story!" Who are we kidding? Food Net has built an empire by shrewdly and accurately anticipating that no one really cares how to make the damn dish or where it came from or why it was created. They just want to see some brightly colored close-ups of the stuff before it disappears into the face of somebody/anybody wearing a low-cut leotard.

Another area of interest to me and my evil co-conspirators at Zero Point Zero International was the subject of "standards and practices." Where is the line between acceptable and unacceptable for broadcast purposes? How far could we go -- if we avoided all classic profanity and any frank depictions of bodily or sexual functions? Well ...we found out on this episode, it turns out that the word or term itself doesn't have to be obscene. But if the lawyers, unfamiliar with an expression, look it up on Wikipedia and find it refers to an activity so disturbing as to frighten old people or small children, then it's out. We have certainly skirted this issue before with limited success. I generally use what I call the "Homer Simpson Rule": If Homer can say it -- on broadcast television -- in prime time -- then we should be able to cover the same territory at 10 PM with a parental advisory. Sadly, it turns out, not always so.

FOOD PORN is a revenge of sorts -- for everything that ever ended up on the cutting room floor. The filthiest, nastiest hour of television we could get away with. And yet -- utterly wholesome! We ain't doing nothin' that Giada, Rachael and Sandra ain't been doin' for years, officer!

It's also, honestly, a chronicle of the most outrageously over-the-top dishes we've ever seen or tasted. For the tiny fragment of our audience who are concerned with such details, look for ZPZ graphics genius Adam Lupsha playing the Boogie Nights-style horny soundman and executive producer Chris Collins as infamous director, "Tad Chanko." Maybe you know him from such films as "Butt Masters 7," "Lumberjack Facials 2" and "Norwegian Wood?" Okay. Maybe not.

It's also worth noting that chefs Eric Ripert, Alan Wong, Jose Andres, Martin Picard, David Chang and Terrance Brennan and chocolatier Alan Down showed enormous generosity and a real sense of humor by submitting to our cruel misuse of their names, reputations and good works

Thank you!

In the bad old days of the culture wars, when the "Forces of Darkness" had aligned against the "Forces of Goodness and Light," Chicago was a key battleground and an early, crucial loss for the good guys. Foie gras had been declared illegal and the ensuing ripples of fear spread cross country. Gutless, craven punks everywhere deserted their comrades like Vichy shopkeepers while animal "activists" terrorized chefs' families and children, vandalized businesses, and strong-armed retailers. But even though chefs like Wolfgang Puck -- for instance -- suddenly discovered their preference for fluffy cute ducks over their fellow chefs or their traditions and headed for the lifeboats, a few lone heroes stood tall, proudly extending a stiff middle finger at the advancing horde.
Doug Sohn, owner/proprietor of Chicago's magnificent emporium of all things meat in tube-form (basically a lunchtime freakin' Hot Dog joint) was just such a hero. After Chicago alderman Joe Moore slipped his own proverbial weiner into the body politic, ramming through legislation forbidding the sale of foie in the city, Sohn created an homage of sorts, the "Joe Moore" dog, a duck, foie gras and Sauternes sausage topped with truffled foie gras and Dijon mustard sauce, selling it in flagrant, open defiance of the law. It was the opening shot of what turned out to be a winning strategy: making the anti-foie gras forces look just so utterly ridiculous that the law was eventually overturned and balance returned to the universe.

(For a detailed account of this epic struggle, with a full accounting of who was good, bad, principled, hypocritical, cowardly or heroic when the chips were down, read Chicago Tribune reporter Mark Caro's excellent and illuminating "The Foie Gras Wars" (Simon and Schuster 2009).

I'm ambivelent about a lot of places, but I am unrestrained in my love for Chicago. Only Chicago could convince me that the New York hot dog was not, in fact, anywhere near the apex of the hot dog arts.(The Chicago Red Hot deserves that honor) . Two respectably old school baseball teams, great, great bars, a tradition of unapproachably good and important music, its own, truly imposing style of architecture, an attitude both big city wise-ass and heartland lack of bullshit, a city open to the bestand most excessive/creative of new, experimental cooking styles, loaded with great chefs (many of whom are pals), it's simply another place I'll use any excuse to visit. Tonight's episode was just such an excuse.

And did I mention all the fantastic looking films shot in Chicago? (See Michael Mann's "Thief", Haskell Wexler's "Medium Cool" et al). I suspect I'll be hearing the "But what about...?" and the "How could you feature Chicago and not go to...." complaints from enthusiastic locals. I already received one e-mail, incredulous that I didn't go to Pizzeria Uno (!!). To which I replied, "What show have YOU been watching? Clearly, not mine." I guess the best thing I could say is that this show is about a slice or two of MY Chicago. Not yours. And speaking of slices? Sorry, but generally speaking, your pizza blows. The generic "deep dish" stuff? At worst, it's "tomato/cheese pie"--or maybe "egg-less tomato quiche"--or "pizza for people who just aren't fat enough". But pizza? Deep dish is pizza like Olive Garden is Italian.

But I ate something truly delicious on camera at Burt's. I don't know that I'd call it "pizza". Whatever Burt's selling? It's something.... special. Some kind of crusty, tomatoey, cheesy....casserole or something--with delightfully fresh toppings. The crust is what really sets it apart from the rest. And Burt, of course, is exactly the sort of rugged, go-your own way individual I like to see succeed anywhere. If you're planning a visit to Chicago, go buy whatever that stuff is he's making. It's great.

On NO RESERVATIONS, we try and NOT do a lot of high end, expensive restaurants. Exceptions--generally speaking--are when they're just too damn good or unique to ignore. Doing a Napa Valley show, for instance, and NOT visiting the French Laundry would be ignoring the elephant in the room (and one of the best restaurants in the world). Likewise, L20's Laurent Gras is a chef of terrifying talent. Every minute of the last couple of years that he's been without a base of operations, his fellow chefs have been holding their breath, waiting for him to land somewhere. Let's put it this way: When Eric Ripert heard we were going to shoot at Laurent's new restaurant in Chicago, he immediately volunteered himself as third wheel at dinner. Flew out and stayed over on his own dime. So when you see the scene at L20 and ask yourself the quite reasonable question, "What the hell is Eric Ripert doing on a Chicago show?" the answer is "eating really, really well." And it's not just another fancy meal. It's something really special.

I've long been a huge fan of Paul Kahan's restaurants, Blackbird and Avec. We visited neither on the show, instead dragooning Paul and his whole posse of talented chefs into whipping up a backyard barbeque. We'd been in danger of being a little light on the "pork factor" on this show. Paul set us right.

I do regret all the places I love in Chicago that we didn't get to feature on the show. As much as I like the Rainbow Club, Pippin's, Matchbox, Green Mill, I don't know how interesting it would be watching me just drinking (again) on television. The cost of allowing any recognizable music on the show precludes most live preformances or even ambient jukeboxes. I like and support Ric Tramonto (another hero of the Foie Gras battles) and enjoy his restaurants but he's not on the show either. Missed the famous "Italian Beef" but we've been on something of a beef sandwich jag lately--in Baltimore and Buffalo and that might have been a beef too far.

In our defense, we have introduced the Southside delicacy, the "Mother In Law Sandwich" to the world--something even most Chicagoans I know were completely unaware of. It is a truly magnificent mutation of which the city can be truly proud. Screw Pizzeria Uno. All Hail Fat Johnnie's!

Somehow, they started calling me "Vic,"anytime I refused, for instance, to ride an elephant around a town square or eat breakfast with an orangutan for a scene (Both real examples). I well recall Lydia - after I said, "I ain't eating no breakfast with a monkey" - saying, "It's not a monkey, Vic, it's an APE!!" Over time, "Vic" became my alter-ego, what they called me whenever they felt I was being "difficult," or standing in the way of quality TV-friendly yuks-or when I began to balk at 14-hour flights in economy class. There was "good" Tony-who'd obligingly stick with the program and "bad" Vic, who (often speaking of himself in the third person) would make his unhappiness known-usually in pungent terms -- as with "Vic," who doesn't want to go to the Halloween party at Motel Dracula. Vic wants to run away and have tiki drinks in his room.

I'm a pretty happy guy these days and in no hurry to live up to any reputation as a snarkologist. I don't see myself as being in the business of travelling around the world pissing on people who are just trying to be nice. I don't go to Iceland or Romania, for instance, looking to make fun of anybody. That's no way and no good motivation to travel. A happy and successful show for me (honestly) is one where everything goes right, where everything is delicious, everyone I meet engaging and everything I see, genuinely interesting to me.


The Azores were a destination I'd long been thinking about. I'd been meaning to make a show there for a long time, largely because of my heavy exposure to Azorean-Americans in Cape Cod early in my cooking career. I was fascinated by the food (so different from mainland Portugal) and curious about the close connection between the populations of New England Portuguese communities and these mysterious islands in the middle of the Atlantic, about which so little seems known.


Now, ordinarily, I have a pretty good idea of what I want to see and do when we arrive at a destination. There's been a lot of back and forth between me and the pre-production team about what, exactly, we're going to do by the time we hit the ground. And during the planning phase of the Azores show, when I saw a "water scene" at the site of some beloved geothermal blowholes in the lovely town of Furnas, I knew immediately that this was not a scene I was likely to be enthusiastic about.

Water scenes - minutes of air time spent looking at me tasting water, or water dribbling out of a faucet or even water emerging from a hole in the ground as steam does not strike me as riveting entertainment. "Know thyself," the saying goes, and I just KNEW that this proposed scene was not going to hold my interest. I swiftly sent off a memo saying "KILL the water scene." Yet, weeks later, arriving in the Azores, I look down and there it was on the schedule. "Sacred Water Scene. Blowholes. Furnas."

Like I said, I try to be nice. I don't want "Vic" emerging from his dark trailer in the deep, ugly - recesses of my subconscious. I loved the Azores and Azoreans. It's beautiful there. The people are great. I have a vested interest, a history if you will, with the Azorean community here. But the combination of having to stand in front of a sulfurous blowhole and find something to say - the fact that I find the word "blowhole" irresistible for purposes of low comedy and my general displeasure with my producers at having ignored Vic's insistent memo to avoid this scene altogether ...well ...You will see the result Monday. Minute-after-minute of sheer snark and bile, the rotten egg smelling clouds issuing from the earth behind me, not the only source of steam. It's clearly visible coming out of my ears.


Same thing happened this past week. I'm happily playing tea party with my daughter, contemplating future good works, thinking about sending a fruit basket to my producers (who I'd abused so badly after the blowhole incident), generally in the kind of mood that makes me want cuddle stray dogs, adopt a kitten, sing Cumbaya with the homeless crackhead who hangs outside my neighborhood supermarket - when the text of Alice Waters' open letter to the President hit my Inbox.


The new guy in the White House has a lot on his plate - as a recent trip through America's Rust Belt had just brought rather poignantly home. So I found the allegedly chronic non-voter Waters' offer to head up a "kitchen cabinet" - an advisory board guiding the new administration to a new, organic, locavorean foodie Valhalla - well ...presumptuous. Particularly in light of the Normandy invasion of chefs, logistics and ingredients for the series of benefit meals which followed. I had a hard time visualizing all these guys foraging for vegetables in D.C. in January. The combined carbon imprints of these talented interlopers - alone ...seemed at odds with the high minded sentiments in the letter.


Out pops Vic and next thing you know, my comments are all over the blogosphere, attacking the Mother Theresa of the food world, viciously sinking my snaggled teeth into the shanks of St. Alice of Berkeley - possibly the most beloved and revered figure in the world of food.


This is made only more awkward by the fact that we'll soon be appearing together in a panel discussion in Connecticut. I cringe, imagining myself in the green room, sheepishly extending a hand over the tuna wraps, Fiji water and complimentary spanokopita, mumbling something like, "Wow ...like, sorry I compared you to Pol Pot. Perhaps that was a bit ...excessive." Next, I'll be accusing Tom Hanks of cannibalism.


All I can say is: It wasn't me. It was Vic.

Whenever we finish a scene, I see him huddled with our hosts, investigating some new and unlikely business venture. In Baltimore, he became deeply involved in discussions about the embalming and funeral industries. At various times, he's threatened me with film making and memoir writing enterprises. (Working title, "Zamir: The Inside Story-Behind the Scenes With NO RESERVATIONS").

He's relentless about inquiring as to real estate values, pondering perhaps, the possibility of making homes available at distress sale prices to Russian oligarchs who might be considering vacation property in East Baltimore or Detroit. There was talk of moving undocumented Ukranian "casino entertainers" across the Canadian border, a fur-bearing perch farm, and drive-through organ harvesting ("We fly doctors in from Kazakhstan! Cash on the barrel, Tony! We can have your kidney out in minutes-and money in your pocket!").

I guess it takes a Russian to really appreciate the American Dream.

Some other surprises. I find, walking into Al-Ameer in Dearborn, that Zamir speaks very passable Arabic! He claims his military service as a technical advisor at a power plant in Iraq-back in Soviet times-required he learn the language. I'm not entirely convinced I buy that story. Maybe the Romanians were right about him.

And he has fans. The drunken debauch that was the Romania show, far from casting my Russian friend in a bad light, has apparently won him an international reputation as a party animal. Walking out of a club last night, he was mobbed. I stood there like a lox while a dazzled Zamir signed napkins, baseball caps and extremities of all kinds. He seemed very pleased at all the adulation. I know he's VERY pleased to still be alive after our snowmobile adventures yesterday. I drove-and those things can go fast. Topping out at 65 or 70, I'm sure my less than skillful New Zealand ATV handling came to mind. My ribs are still bruised from where his fingers dug into my sides.

I hope all the attention and all the times he's been recognized doesn't go to his head. He's already begun making demands which some might find ... unreasonable.

"Performance fleece-lined blue jeans for all outdoor scenes" "Red-and ONLY red M&M's to be available at all times."

"All furniture shall be draped in white-and floral arrangements shall conform exclusively to same color scheme."

"Talent is NOT to be looked at directly by service staff."

It's only a matter of time till he asks for a trailer.

It was one of those chance mash-ups of very different backstories: me and my crew, Felicia and hers, some pipefitters on lunch break at the next table, a shared silly moment that could only happen in America.

If you haven't seen THE WIRE, the single finest, best written, best made, best acted, most ambitious series in the history of television, then go buy the boxed set NOW. It got me to Baltimore again-a city with which I had unpleasant history (through no fault of Baltimore's). In the space of two days, I found myself sitting down for pit beef and crab cakes respectively with two people who appeared on that show: legendary homicide investigator Jay Landsman on whom the HOMICIDE and LAW AND ORDER character, Detective Munch (played by Richard Belzer) was based, and "Snoop," who played, brilliantly and with truly chilling authenticity, the remorseless, teenaged assassin of the same name.

Both have seen the very worst of America's streets-and yet both have had improbably wonderful things happen to them.

Landsman describes seeing Snoop for the first time, shooting someone from the back of a bicycle, mid-wheelie, on the show-impressively, but entirely too proficiently, he thought. And Snoop describes Landsman, and Ed Byrnes and all the other veteran cops who worked on The WIRE (as well as producer creator David Simon) as "family."

I don't know what the Chamber of Commerce will think of the Baltimore segment-or the city fathers of the other cities we're visiting on what we're referring to privately as the "Rust Belt" show, but I can tell you that I am already a big fan of pit beef, the wonders of "lake trout" (neither trout-nor from a lake as it turns out), and the heavy but wonderful, vodka soaked charms of Detroit Polish food and Macedonian pastries. And I wonder what my Russian friend and sidekick, Zamir is making of all this, the bombed out, half deserted inner cities, the abandoned Ford plant, the funny, tough-as-nails hard working people we're meeting whose jobs are either gone or under threat. I told Zamir I'd show him America and that's what I'm doing.

There is-in spite of it all-a fierce pride, a toughness-and a uniquely American sense of dark humor, shared by everybody we've met, that's given me an uncharacteristic sense of optimism.

I had to travel all over the world, to find my way here, I think. And to feel the way I'm feeling about an America they don't usually show you on the hotel channel.

This Monday, it's Venice. And if nothing else, one of the most beautifully photographed episodes of NO RESERVATIONS. I'm proud of the look-and hope we managed to give a sense of how delicious the everyday food of the city can be. I draw attention-for benefit of any tech and film wonks reading this-to the use of our new toy, a 35 millimeter lens-adapted to DV cameras, which gave the episode the look of a big screen movie in parts. I'm besotted by Italy lately-and this was a fun one to make.

Even in the middle of tourist season, we managed, I think, to make Venice look hauntingly empty. A single street sweeper in an otherwise deserted Piazza San Marco, backstreets populated only by Venetians, sipping their drinks and looking idly out at the world, a private world of simple good things set against a backdrop of Europe's most beautiful living museum, slowly sinking into the Adriatic. Baby softshell crabs, slowly stewed cuttlefish, cooked in its own ink, sweet and sour sardines, pastas you'd cheerfully kill your own best friend for a taste of-and the best damn risotto I've ever had.Eat first-or watching will be a torment.

Became aware of a NO RESERVATIONS-related anomaly in Colombo. Watching the New Orleans show on Travel and Living Channel in my room, it slappped me upside the head: "Where's the final scene with Donald Link of Cochon restaurant? What happened to the suckling pig scene in his backyard?" Gone. Replaced by an artfully re-edited pork-free ending. It dawned on me: Malaysia. Java. Singapore. A lot of muslims for whom the sight of yet another identifiable cloven hooved beastie can be well….offensive. I don't know in what little office-or where-some poor guy has to nip and tuck our increasingly pig-centric show into an hour of de-porked entertainment, but they've sure got their work cut out for them.

Producer Tom Vitale looks a little queasy today. The room temperature "pizza" squares, sitting under an anemic heat lamp in the airline lounge screamed "Warning!" to me-but apparently not to Tom. He had curiously little appetite at dinner, in spite of the fantastic array of Vietnamese goodies coming our way. As I've told the crew before: I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I've done a LOT of travelling and eating these last 8 years. If, as you approach a pre-wrapped egg salad sandwich at an English sandwich shop, or ponder the jambalaya option on the menu in Namibia, the chicken Caesar in Puebla-or consider the exotic delights of Sri Lankan airport pizza, you see me shaking my head and smiling fiendishly? Maybe you shouldn't eat it.

It's Christmas Wonderland in the lobby at the Majestic. Snow capped tree, a vast landscape of elves and reindeer, brightly colored packages, twinkling lights-the North pole. Then you step onto Dong Khoi Street and there's no question where you are. Back in Viet Nam.

Took a walk down to the square in front of the Continental and Givral's and the opera house, appropriately buying a pirated copy of The Quiet American on the way. ( I read it every time I come to Viet Nam). Nothing has changed and everything has changed since last time I was here. More cars, fewer bikes. Everybody wears helmets now. There are Vuitton and Gucci boutiques where the bric-a-brac shops selling fake wartime Zippos used to be-but it smells the same, and once sitting on a low plastic stool with a glass of strong iced coffee, eating banh xeo (sizzling crepes filled with pork and baby shrimp and sprouts, I am reassured that all is right with the world.

Philippe (from Les Halles) arrived from Vientiane last night-and has the same blissed out grin on his face I have. Happy to be alive and in Saigon. Looking forward to our first bowl of pho with a ferocity bordering on the desperate.

Ended the day with the crew at the rooftop bar. Gin and tonics while watching the ferries fill with scooters then disgorge, a current of headlights fanning out on both sides of the Saigon River….. .

And no. I'm not suffering from some kind of weird, late-in-life, delusional Arsenio-esque urges . Monday night's AT THE TABLE thing is a one-off (or maybe a two or three-off) idea where I get to sit down, talk about a lot of pretty obscure, insider food and travel-related issues with some opinionated friends--and at the same time--eat for free at a restaurant I respect and find intensely interesting. We may repeat may do a couple more down the road--locally based and with local chefs and guests in other cities, but this does not signify some strange new direction.

It took about five hours of my time to shoot AT THE TABLE (nice!), yet the format requires (I found) a mammoth production. WD-50, the restaurant where we filmed the show, was jammed with an invading army of camera operators, sound techs, lighting guys, portable control room, bonobo-trainers, mink-wranglers, hair and make-up -- and a crackhead to operate the smoke machine .... It was like a real television show -- something I'm not used to.

In the strangely bright center of an otherwise empty restaurant, me and four guests gathered round and ate and drank and discussed such burning issues as: "What's the butt-ugliest behavior you've ever seen in a restaurant? Or taken part in?" And the issue on everybody's mind -- at a moment when the economy teeters on the precipice: "Is it ethically okay to blow $1,800 bucks on dinner?"

Pondering these questions were four people well-suited to answer them, worldly -- some might say jaded -- veterans of many high end restaurant meals, people for whom the free dinner and comped bottle of vintage wine are no strangers: Nightclub owner/proprietor, Amy Sacco of New York City's Bungalow 8 ... author of that excellent, bestselling account of working as Mario Batali's "kitchen bitch," Heat, New Yorker editor and founder of Granta Magazine, Bill Buford ... writer, TV personality, fellow judge on Top Chef, Ted Allen .... and notorious nightcrawler, former gossip columnist for Page Six and current editor at Maxim Magazine, Chris Wilson.

Am I any good at leading and moderating a televised discussion? I don't know. I've jumped out of an airplane and eaten warthog rectum -- so I figured ... why not try this too? Frankly, after watching the rough cut, I think I come off like a drunk version of John McLaughlin -- you know, that loud, douchebag on the McLaughlin Group?

On the bright side, I got to eat -- and you get to see -- a truly extraordinary and important chef at work; Wylie Dufresne. About that, I feel unreservedly good. If you haven't eaten at WD-50? Do so at first opportunity. It's truly an adventure. I hope that comes across in the show.

By the time you read this, me, Todd, Zach, Jared, Alex and contest runner-up Augusto should be halfway across the Pacific, on our way to the Philippines. I see balut in my future.