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.

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" 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.

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.

It says something when the comments about a show (on my blog and on the message boards) were smarter, more thoughtful and insightful than the show itself.

The People Have Spoken.

Which made my arrival in the Philippines even more shaky. Of all the people who watch NO RESERVATIONS, it's been Filipinos who have been consistently among our biggest fans and most vocal about our having yet to film in their country.

"You've been all over Asia," I hear again and again," … so WHY haven't you come to the Philippines?!"

Well … I'm here. And the pressure is on. Luggage yet to arrive, I walk, unshaven, unwashed and in dirty clothes through the lobby of my hotel and everybody, it seems, watches the show. All eyes seem to follow my reeking carcass up to the breakfast buffet. People stop me and ask me what I plan to show the world of their country. Still stinging from the whirlwind of revulsion that followed last week's stillbirth, I wish I had a big floppy hat I could pull down over my head (if not my whole body). All I can say is "Don't worry. We're NOT doing balut. Been there. Done that." And privately think to myself, "Don't screw this up … don't screw this up ... don't screw this up."

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.

The hapless, ZPZ tape-loggers, caffeine-jacked myrmidons who toil away in the filthy sub-cellar of our corporate headquarters, reviewing hour after hour of mind-numbingly repetitive and boring video tape, noticing this spectral apparition, began to lose their already tentative grips on reality. One scene after another, a glimpse here, a face in the crowd there, lurking suspiciously in the background in another scene, down the bar a few positions, pretending he doesn't know me in another -- or front and center; there he is.

It's Albert's very ubiquitousness in the raw footage, his omnipresence -- even in the scenes where the viewer won't see him, that tells you all you need to know about Spain -- and how damn good it is.

Understand: Albert, along with his brother, Ferran, is a chef/owner of the three Michelin starred El Bulli, the hardest to reserve, restaurant table in the world. He's a national hero, an international superstar in the world of chefs and restaurants. Suffice to say that just about anywhere in the world of fine dining, from Shanghai to San Francisco; when Albert walks in the door, the whole place goes on Red Alert. He's used to the very best. If there's a downside to his life in the culinary firmament, it's that too much foie gras, truffles and expensive wine come his way.

As a chef at El Bulli, hugely respected pastry chef -- and as the owner of a casual eatery in Barcelona, he can surely have the very best Spanish ingredients delivered anywhere he wants, quickly, with a phone call. You'd think, he'd be a bit .....jaded by it all.

Yet, there he was at Espinaler, gobbling up those supernaturally delicious, canned cockles and razor clams and mussels like he'd never had them before. Tagging along at Quimet and Quimet, shoveling in the tapas with a big smile on his face. Out in the country, with a silly red bib, a blissed-out expression, sucking down the calcots and the red wine like it was his last meal on earth.

I've never seen anyone so happy to be in Spain -- and (this is my point here) HE FREAKIN' LIVES THERE!!!

All that magnificent food -- all those cool little tapas bars, they're right down the street--and yet, it was like he just landed in Barcelona from Mars. His enthusiasm for his own country, his own heritage, the everyday places and things of Spain was something to see.

Naturally this made me misanthropic and deeply envious.

Why can't I have that? How come I gotta go halfway across the earth -- to like, Singapore, or Hong Kong (or Spain), for instance, to really get MY culinary jollies these days? He's on a magic carpet ride in his own town and I'm like a full-bloom junkie, the honeymoon period over, needing a higher and higher dosage to get off in MY home town of New York!. Why?

The sad fact is, we'll never -- and I mean NEVER have it so good as in Spain. It's not like we don't have great restaurants in Manhattan - -and will surely have many more. And certainly, we can get many of the same ingredients jetted over (more or les s-- if at a steep price). No. It's attitudinal. You can faithfully reproduce the look of a Spanish tapas bar in New York City. You can stock it with all the best, most authentic ingredients, just-jerked from the rivers, streams, soil and seas of Spain. You can staff the joint with the best cooks, dragooned off the streets of the parta vieja. And you'll still never be close to the real thing. Because what your tapas bar needs -- really needs -- is three or four or eight OTHER tapas bars (or casual Spanish eateries within walking distance).

You can't really enjoy this kind of food in a vacuum. You need to graze -- or at least know that you can graze (should the urge arise), bouncing from one place to another, a mouthful or two of what's good here, a glass of tinto, a few mouthfuls of what they do well over there -- another glass of tinto and so on. In fact, the whole customer base has to re-groove to accommodate this notion. They'll have to accept the idea that a small can of tuna -- or clams -- can actually be better than fresh stuff. And worth about $150 bucks.

That the fat of Spanish acorn fed pigs is the stuff of which dreams are made. That there's nothing unusual about growing up with Goya, Dali, Bunuel, and Gaudi. That midnite is a normal time to sit down to dinner.

The best example of What They Do In Spain that We Can and Never Will Do is to be found in the Extebarri scene near the end of the show. Here, at a rustic pub in the mountains near St. Sebastian, grilling has been raised to unthinkable zen-like heights. Hand made charcoals. A separate fire for each individual order. Separate grills -- and custom designed and crafted pans and implements to best achieve perfection.

Ingredients of a quality undreamed of by most mortals. This, in a simple, neighborhood-looking joint with a smoky bar and a self-taught chef who grew up in the village. It's where the Adrias, Arzaks and Aduriz's go for their own pleasure -- high end comfort food.

Back before cable, if you took a baseball bat and smacked it upside a television set in the middle of a show, there'd be a black and white sputter, a flash -- and then white noise and static. That was what my first bite of grilled elvers was like there. And the grilled gambas. And just about everything else in that chilly, wood-smoke smelling kitchen. A jarring, flood of endorphins, then brain overload, and for a second, a blinding light. Momentarily, the synapses shorted out. Sensation returned in a warm, intensely pleasurable afterglow of flavor. It was a sensation that related directly to the experience of a few weeks before -- in Tokyo. At Sukibayashi Jiro. Two seemingly simple things done well -- as well as they can be done. In Tokyo: old school sushi.
In Spain, grilled stuff with a little salt and a light spritz of oil.
Nothing, as it turns out, could be better

There are, on reflection, some similarities between the two destinations: in both cultures, the very best ingredients, presented in all their unadorned, un-fussed with, pristine simplicity, are celebrated and enjoyed with great enthusiasm. The cult of jamon in Spain, for instance, bears some resemblance to the Japanese obsession with the very best tuna. Neither culture requires additional ingredients or garnish to get the point. I love seeing what happens to Western chefs after visiting Japan for the first time. A very fine Italian chef friend of mine returned typically traumatized by what he'd seen and experienced. Weeks later, he still had that uniquely blissed out, confused, sort of hangdog look on his face -- an expression I can only compare to what happens after you've had the first really, really good sex of your life. It's a look that says, "I thought I knew a few things. But apparently I don't." It's devastating. The kind of earth-shakingly wonderful -- yet deeply upsetting event about which great romance novels are written (most, sadly, tragedies). Travel forces you to re-define the meanings of words you thought you knew. Just as watching the lives of rice farmers in Vietnam causes you to adjust your understanding of the word "work", and exposure to hutment dwellers in India requires a reexamination of the word "hunger" , you can never return from Japan and hear the word "sushi" in the same way. Utility sushi is suddenly, no longer enough. You will be at least dimly aware that there's "rice" and then there's a universe of unknowable varieties and subtly different grades and preparations -- about which neither you nor I have enough time left to learn enough about to even fake a conversation with a skilled sushi chef.

When, for a few days, or hours, your mouth comes to know the taste and feel of fish for which the proprietor paid $300 to $400 wholesale ... when you wrap two fingers -- gently -- around slightly warm, crumbly/soft rice -- over which a perfectly cut, slightly dressed piece of mackerel served at just the right temperature has been lovingly draped ... when you realize the old man in front of you has spent fifty or more YEARS just getting these seemingly simple things right, you enter a whole new dimension of food appreciation.

Yakitori: Bits of chicken on a stick are no longer a snack -- but the expression of centuries of thinking about pleasure.

Soba: A noodle is no longer just a noodle. The world turns on its axis -- and plain old vanilla food porn is no longer enough. Tonight, at Sukibayashi Jiro, you will see what is inarguably, some of the very best sushi available on the planet. And no one -- not the nerdiest of food nerds -- can argue that Jiro-san himself, is not among its greatest living practitioners.

I will spare you additional details, giving you time, I hope, to pour yourself a stiff drink, situate yourself comfortably on the couch, position a bucket of ice water nearby, and strap on some extra absorbent adult diapers to avoid embarrassing emissions. Foodies with heart conditions should probably medicate themselves appropriately. The Spain episode that follows next week will only make matters worse. Food bloggers will surely be caused to bleed unexpectedly and inexplicably from various orifices, a fine mist of brain matter and steam issuing from the ears.

A seemingly straightforward scene at "Espinaler" near Barcelona, where we crack open some cans of mussels, cockles and razor clams will cause, I'm quite certain, heads to explode across the internet, leaving only smoldering stumps. The gurgling pipe-loads of dark, African chocolate rumbling beneath the floor of Enric Rovira's workshop, when spread across marble, will no doubt initiate many newcomers watching with that special someone -- to the experience of rolling over into the wet spot. By the time the Extebarri scene rolls around, and the Imperial beluga caviar and the prawns and the freshly made, uncured chorizo and the just-killed baby eels start grilling over their individual fires of hand made charcoals, few will be left alive, I fear, to appreciate the Arzak scene.

You have been warned.

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

You know, I've mercilessly and enthusiastically made sport of Rocco di Spirito many, many times. I've said--and accused him--of a full menu of truly awful things. Some of them were even true. No matter how bizarre or inexplicable some of his career choices, I always respected him as a gifted cook. He's also--when not flogging frozen products--a thoughtful and insightful judge on Top Chef. But I have to tell you--of ALL the chefs who said they were absolutely, positively, by all means would be DELIGHTED to show up at our travesty of an awards ceremony--at the end of the day, only Rocco and Aaron Sanchez actually made it.Rocco had enough balls and sense of humor about himself to fly out of a snowstorm on an early flight so two miserable pricks who'd done nothing but make fun of him over the years could have him present the "Rocco Award" for "Worst Career Move" to Tyler Florence. Tyler, we were informed at the last minute, encountered a "problem with his calamari for the Bubble Q" and was suddenly needed elsewhere. While on one hand, I was very grateful to Tyler for (at least initially) agreeing to subject himself to our cruel ritual disembowelment, the image of Tyler Florence personally cleaning 500 pounds of squid was difficult to summon. Particularly next to the Sysco truck.I believe Aaron (who has every reason to want to give Ruhlman a kick in the nuts--after the shameful hair-hopper face-off of Next Iron Chef) accepted on Tyler's behalf.

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

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

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

Day One:

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

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

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

After a breakfast of chicken, grilled between splints of bamboo, and an egg omelette, a soup of wild mushrooms and greens--and of course, sticky rice and fiery chili paste, we headed out into the mountains to visit a rice farmer and family, catch some swallows and have a meal.All quite wonderful--as you'll see on the show. Just about anywhere you point your camera in Laos, you see something beautiful and extraordinary. It's a mountainous landscape, thickly forested with tall bamboo, palms, fir and pine trees, impossibly vertical karsks, remote villages and few paved roads. Most mornings, it is covered with storybook mists. It's one of the few countries on Earth still barely touched by Western chains. There are No McDonalds. No Starbucks. No KFCs. Anywhere. Even in the sleepy capitol city of Vientiane. The food is spicy and mostly delicious and just about everyone we speak to is warm, generous and remarkably open about their lives, their hopes, their joys and their often considerable pain.

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

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

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