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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, it was worse: An old photo of yours truly -- after a horrifying night of drinking in Iceland, huddled, near naked in the Blue Lagoon, pondering whether to throw up or simply sink beneath the surface and die.Is this enticing? Does this make ANYONE--even longtime convicts--feel compelled to tune in? Some Things May Indeed Be Better in HD. My puffy, drink ravaged face and 51 year old naked torso would NOT be one of them. With all the beautiful places we've been on the show, THIS is an example of the glories of hi-def ? Apparently, the price of crack must have dropped near HQ. There's no other excuse for this shameful display of ugliness. What tiny, deeply disturbed demo were they trying to appeal to here? German Scat Porn websites likely attract greater numbers. And...

What about the CHILDREN!?

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

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 ...

"But I've never felt so FRESH," he kept wailing, plaintively from the back seat. His face pressed to the window as he stared longingly back in the direction of the hotel.
Last night, we shot "walking B-roll" in the narrow alleyways of Golden Gai, an incredible rabbit warren of tiny bars and casual "joints". After the rest of the crew fanned out across Kabuki-Cho, Zach and I took a break from the cold, randomly choosing a particularly uninviting looking doorway and then climbing what was literally a ladder to a dollhouse-sized second floor bar. Slid open a door and found what appeared to be a punk rock themed six-seat bar. Empty but open for business. Smaller than the interior of our production van, there was just room enough for the two of us, our coats and Zach's camera. Two beers later and back to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

And it'll make good television!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You'll just have to tune in.