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.

And I was happiest during my stay in Egypt sitting under those same stars, a fire crackling and throwing off sparks nearby, belly full of roast lamb, surrounded -- as far as the eye could see -- by nothing but the dark rises of an ocean of sand. But Cairo was another matter.Egyptians are surprisingly friendly towards Americans. One hears "Hello!" and "Welcome!" from passing strangers all the time. And there's something truly wonderful about the drivers in this unbelievably crowded and unruly city. Though there are precious few traffic lights, somehow cars move at a good clip through the bumper to bumper streets. There's apparently a language of car horns -- coded beeps, taps and honks -- containing a fairly vast vocabulary of implications. Cars and pedestrians intermingle in impossible to perceive patterns and yet keep moving. Parking in the narrow, dog-leg back streets of Cairo is a mysterious and cooperative effort often involving driving backwards for great distances. Pythagorus would have been dazzled by the way eight or ten cars move forward or backward to allow one car in or out.

There's those pyramids. Though I never saw them except as shapes, seen through the haze from the window of a passing car.

I was not at ease in Cairo. It wasn't the gun-packing security types we were required to have along at all times. They were nice enough. And our fixer was a great guy. It was the Egyptian standard breakfast of "ful". And the fact that the tourism types didn't want us to see it. (See Rennik Soholt's excellent entry on "The Crew's Blog" to get the backstory on how we managed to actually get that scene). Ful (pronounced "fool") is a bowl or plate of mashed or semi-mashed fava beans which have been cooked in a copper pot -- usually with onions and some garlic -- and served with a healthy dose of olive oil. You eat it with flatbread. A LOT of bread -- usually a big stack which you use to sop up every bit. It's affectionately referred to as a "stone in the stomach". And they mean that in a good way.

Since pharonic times, the poor and working poor have filled up on the stuff as pretty much their principal meal of the day. If you're doing well for yourself, you can get a chopped, hard-cooked egg on top. And some pickled vegetables on the side. Problem is, very few Egyptians are doing well. In fact, most are living on or way below the poverty line. That bread is often the greater part of breakfast lunch AND dinner. And bread, recently, has doubled in price (with the rising cost of flour worldwide). Price supported bakeries, run (ominously) by the army, have been forced to ration, cutting their hours drastically.

The government, such as it is, is of the kind where enormous pictures of a Much Younger Looking Than He's Been in Years Fearless Leader are everywhere. Members of the opposition tend to get arrested just before elections. So Egypt felt like an inappropriate place to be doing a "food" show. Frankly, I didn't feel up to the job. When I found myself on a felucca, shooting a "majestic" waterborne scene on the Nile, and ten minutes out, the mast snapped off under a bridge, it seemed a perfect metaphor for the entire dubious enterprise. We limped around for an additional hour or so, the producer trying in vain to make the best of things, hoping, I imagine, that the audience would be oblivious to the huge, dangling spar, the sagging, sorry-ass sail, the fact that we were limping along like a gimped seagull.

Maybe it's that I particularly like Egyptians and wish the best for them. That our stunted sailboat seemed a metaphor for the hopes and dreams of the many good hearted people I met. Or maybe it was because Egypt was the last episode of season four, and I was just really, really homesick.

In any case, we're well into season five as I write this from Mexico City. I'm down here with my friend Carlos, the chef of Les Halles, and tomorrow, we head out for Puebla to meet his parents, sit down for a big Llaguna family meal. It'll be nice to see where the guy who worked by my side and who now has the job I once had comes from. It's a happier situation for sure. In every cantina, pulqueria, fonda we've visited, there's music. All the songs are very sad -- yet Mexicans seem always to find the beauty, the irony -- and even the humor in often hopeless situations -- and sing about them.

A short, sweet-faced, matronly woman made me quesadillas of fresh cheese and zucchini blossoms in the street today. The fillings cooked inside blue corn tortillas which she made by hand in front of me. They puffed and blistered on the hot metal . As she proudly presented me with the finished product, folding the quesadilla with a final squeeze and passing it to me with her hands, I noticed her fingers were dusted with indigo colored corn flour.

They were beautiful.

The on camera demonstration of high speed butchering techniques and BBQ prep in the RV kitchen caused, I suspect, bleeding brain-sweats at Travel Channel legal department. "Don't Try This At Home, Kids!" Every once in a while I get to do a show that's total playtime. The car? Free (for the duration of the show). All I had to do was drive it. The people silly enough to entrust me with this expensive piece of high performance equipment only asked that I "have fun." "How does it handle off the road?" I asked, expecting to frighten them. Nope. I was encouraged to beat the shit out of the thing. And I did my very best.

Loaded up the iPod with a "desert-driving mix of ZZ Top, Lynrd Skynrd, Taj Mahal, the Stones, Tito and Tarantula, James Brown, John Fogerty, Prodigy, Steppenwolf and every song I could find with the words "Road" or "Highway" "Wheels" in it. Chris, by the way, my supposedly responsible executive producer and head of the freakin' company, sitting in the passenger seat? Hardly the voice of moderation. "Faster!! Faster!!" he'd hiss, through spittle flecked lips. "Make it jump! Get some air!!" he'd shriek, urging me on -- when already off the road, tearing along at 60 through some dusty arroyo. I gotta work this product placement vehicle racket more often. And I'm open to suggestions from any gearhead fans on what cars might be fun to misuse next.

Other than my first act of product-related whoredom, the Southwest Road Show was notable for a few other features: The return of veteran cameraman Jerry Risius being the most welcome and obvious. As some commenters have noticed and wondered about, we tend to rotate key crew members on tours of duty. Producer Tracey Gudwin, for instance, has been living in Berlin since shortly after the Berlin show and returns for the Egypt and upcoming Venice shows. Jerry, recovering from the cumulative effects of a nacho-related head trauma in the Texas/Mexican Border show and the Beirut experience, returned for the Road Show -- filling in for Zach Zamboni (who was busy shooting the more lucrative feature film Naughty ButtMasters #7).

Nothing is better for a brain bruise and a nervous breakdown than being forced to competitively shove a 72 ounce steak, fried shrimp, bread, salad and potato down your gullet in front of a crowd of hooting Texans (and our cameras). And of course, there was Alice. Cooper that is. About the nicest, most normal guy you could ever meet. It actually makes perfect sense that he own a sports bar -- as he's a sports nut. And I could have spent ten hours easily shooting the shit about 60's era Detroit bands and baseball. I almost worked through some trauma of my own: a Randy Johnson related problem I've had since the Yankees lost to the D-Backs in the play-offs a while back.

It was inevitable, if you think about it, that I should make television, eat BBQ and play with large caliber automatic weapons with Ted Nugent. It was, I think, only a matter of time. In fact, midway through shooting a scene at "The Nuge's" ranch, I got a text from Mario Batali -- inviting me out for drinks or some kind of mayhem. I texted back that I regretted being unable to join him as I was currently unloading a belt-fed M-60 machine gun at Ted Nugent's place. His totally unsurprised response was "Of course you are."

I didn't seek Ted out, by the way. I was summoned. He called a while back, said we should make television together - -and then told me exactly how. When the Nuge says jump? You ask only "How High?" and "How much ammo will I need?" In TedWorld, by the way, it all makes perfect sense.

And finally, this was the episode where I, at last, got to settle the score with Switzerland. Perhaps launching an ICBM at them was a bit much -- but my skin really and truly crawls at even the sight of an Alpine vista. I don't know why exactly. Maybe it has something to do with Helmut, the Swiss/German barber I had to go to as a child. He had one of those wall murals of Lake Geneva with snow capped alps in the background -- and I always associate those images with getting an ugly and humiliating haircut from a stern-looking old guy with a scary German accent. Followed by bullying at school. Even Ricola commercials make me break into a cold sweat.

Lederhosen, Alpine hats, cuckoo clocks, St Bernards, cross country skiers and the Sound of Music make me phsyically ill. They remind me of hair clippings itching my nose, a coiff that would make a middle Brady blush, and the feeling of many tiny little fists in my face as from behind, someone goes for the atomic wedgie . So it was with real joy that I initiated launch sequence. Hell, I ain't ever making a show there anyhow. And their cheese? It sucks.

The end result of the above -- at least (and only) as far as cuisine -- is more often than not, good.

People eat what they eat for a reason. And they tend to cook well for a reason. That reason may no longer exist as a prime motivator -- but it's there if you care to go back and look.

People may not have to eat salt cod in Portugal or "stock fish" in the Caribbean anymore. The days of conquest for one -- and slavery for the other, are long gone. But they do (Cause it's good. Or they've managed to make it good.) The relatively non-perishable, seige-friendly cuisine of Fez, Morocco, the delicious one-time scraps and beans of Brazilian feijouda, the Spam cults of Korea and Hawaii, the bony delights of Malaysian sup tulang, the simple act of coffee drinking relate directly to the collision of cultures and, usually, to people doing bad things to each other.

No reason to fight the Battle of Hastings -- or Dien Bien Phu over and over again, or wring our hands, particularly, over who was right and who was wrong. But it's certainly useful and appropriate when visiting a country, I think, to acknowledge that wars, for instance, happened, and to take note of who won -- and who lost. More often than not, it's why there are still potatoes on your plate -- instead of a starchy farinaceous product, couscous or rice.

I'm not a pundit, an activist, an advocate for anybody. My political views are my own -- and I try -- really try, to keep them to myself. The last person I want to hear talk about politics or the nation's conscience or obligation to the world is some Hollywood ****tard. Some well-paid douchebag who lives in a compound in Malibu has, to my mind, very little of value or interest to say to anyone who's worried about the price of milk.
Neither you (nor I) should have to be preached to by Sean Penn or Leonardo DiCaprio -- from between the legs of a beautiful actress -- (even if I agree with them much of the time). Ditto, anyone lucky enough, like me, to have a job writing and making self-indulgent television.

That said, there are certain things one cannot help but notice when making food and travel television. One tends to notice -- as in Laos -- when one has to be careful about where one steps on the way to one's meal. Or (as in Laos and Cambodia when the people one encounters at meals are missing limbs. To not mention these screamingly obvious features -- how they might have occurred and how they remain factors in every day life, would feel ... bizarre.

It is no slight, for instance, against those Americans who fought along side of the Hmong people -- to mention the final outcome of what happened there. Just as it is useful and appropriate to remind people that the Hmong, our allies, who lost so much in that struggle, still exist. Nothing "political" about acknowledging history. Particularly, when you are about to sit down and eat with it.

On a slightly different front, my crew and I spend a LOT of time in countries where the government's attitude towards human rights is not what you (presumably) or I or the residents of a comfortable, well fed community in say ... the Berkeley area, might find appropriate or acceptable. If -- as has been suggested by some viewers, we have an obligation to avoid ANY country where human rights are routinely violated or where equality of the sexes is not respected, the list of shows we would NOT have shown you at all might include China, Laos, Vietnam, Uzbekistan, Russia, Egypt, Malaysia, Indonesia and on and on.

If you wanted to put a really fine point on it, you could argue that even Colombia or sybaritic Brazil, don't stand the test of Political Correctness. I doubt, for that matter, that even we do these days. So ... what then? Take this argument to its logical extreme and we'd end up making shows exclusively in Sweden and Iceland.

"How can you make TV in China and NOT mention the oppression of the Tibetan people?!" - Goes one argument. And it's a pretty compelling one. But once committed to shooting in a country, one becomes very aware of those one will leave behind. The people who open their homes to our cameras, who guide us, drive us, feed us -- they LIVE in the places I'm talking blithely about on camera. If I start asking them questions like "So ...How was that re-education camp?" It could put all involved with us in a very tough spot long after me and the crew have gone and are comfortably back in New York.

It's a fine line we have to walk sometimes. But what you should know about the leader whose biquitous and unsmiling portrait hangs on the walls of every home and business in Country X will always be mentioned -- and the fact that it's on every wall should tell you plenty.

Conversely, I believe it to be useless, counterproductive and just ... willfully ignorant to demonize everyone in a country because one finds their national policies or cultural beliefs repellent. The very last thing any of us aspire to do when making "No Reservations" is show you a definitive portrait of a nation, a culture or a religion -- or even a city. It's not the "Best" or "Worst" of anything. It's not even the "typical", necessarily -- though we try and show everyday foods and life as much as we can. This is as true of the Saudi Arabia show as it is of ... the Cleveland show.

At their best, our shows go like this:

I encounter some people -- or take them along. They show me their lives. We go some places --meet some friends. I tell you how that felt to me. THAT'S what we do. Now, if I've managed to convey those things in entertaining -- and possibly informative fashion (good or bad), then I've succeeded. If, inadvertently, I've found -- once again -- that people around the world, more often than not -- are actually pretty nice -- and not THAT different than you and me? Well, great. Score one for optimism. I'm not, however, in the feel good business. But if you're genuinely nice to me and my crew, hospitable and I actually have a good time in your home? I'll make every effort to reflect that feeling.

Defining the "character" of a people is a complex matter. I have had many a warm and wonderful time in places where -- just across town, it is likely that someone was getting their testicles twisted by some very unpleasant policemen. Just as I have been places where Very Bad Things have happened to Very Nice People, I have also met many Very Nice People who have done Very Bad Things.

Where we, as Americans, fall within those parameters, is open to debate. Personally, I embrace that grey zone -- where morality, such as it is, is defined by how we, as individuals, can -- given the opportunity -- treat each other at the table. If nothing else, it's a start.

On "No Reservations," I've sat down to eat with many different kinds of people over the years: Miguel Cotto punches people in the head until they become unconscious -- for a living. Nice guy. Really knows a good place for roast pork. For much of his life, Victor Cherkashin was in charge of all KGB operations against the USA -- and personally oversaw some of our worst and most destructive traitors. Sweetest old man you'd ever hope to meet. And good pickled mushrooms! Ted Nugent (coming soon) holds political views which would make Ghengis Khan blanche. He also knows good brisket. I really like all of them. And I think you should too.

Oh yeah ... Uruguay was really cool. NOT a good place to be a vegetarian.