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

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

Best,

Anthony Bourdain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#1. Philippines

#2. Bali

#3. Puerto Rico

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

So there's the "Labor Day" show coming up (actually a clip show/behind the scenes extravaganza--mostly sweepings from the proverbial stable floor, some previously unseen stuff of varying interest). And that's it for original episodes of Season 4.

In the interim between seasons, there will be some "specials" from time to time--stand-alone projects and ongoing mini-series-within-a series on various food and travel themes.

But rest assured, we are already hip deep into production of Season 5. Which is how I'm writing this from Lombardy, where I'm taking a few days rest and family time after the Mexico shoot, girding my loins for the rigors of the upcoming Venice show. Tracey, Todd, Zach and Nari, are, I‘m told, taking a mule train over the Alps to meet me.

As you may or may not know (or care), we like to use visual and audio "cues" for each new episode of the show--a particular and distinctive sound and look, usually ripped off from a movie we admire. We looked, for instance, at a lot of early Japanese films before shooting the recent Tokyo/Kyoto show, trying to ape that wide-screen, slow panning, carefully composed frame stuff you see in some of them. For the Hong Kong show, we boned up on a grab bag of "New" Asian, from Ringo Lam, Takashi Miike and Kenji Fukasaku, to some of the kookier Korean thriller directors--also the insane "Tokyo Fist" and the "Tetsuo" films.

William Friedkin's terrific "To Live and Die in LA" was the whole and entire inspiration for the LA show's oil rigs and brown hues. For an upcoming DC show, author George Pelecanos's superb Washington based novels--and his work on the greatest dramatic series EVER on television, "The Wire" formed a kind of center of gravity. Our Chicago show was filmed in a state of full-on hero worship, as I've been long besotted by Michael Mann's Chicago-based film, "Thief". For Venice we're looking hard at Nicolas Roeg's "Don't Look Now" and Paul Schrader's creepy "Comfort Of Strangers".

Let me stress here that I'm not comparing our shows to any of these masterworks. I'm just saying we like 'em a whole helluva lot--and try to rip off ideas from their cinematography and soundtracks as best we can (in our own cheesy, low-tech way). I'm very proud and happy when commentators--especially those from within the industry-- notice that the camera work and editing on the show have really stepped up this past couple of seasons. Much hard work and a lot of truly ingenious innovation have gone into making the shows: difficult camera movements, jury-rigged platforms, mobile camera mounts, and acts of foolhardy athleticism on the part of the shooters.

I should make particular mention of the brilliant, home-made "Owl-Cam" rig used in the Saudi desert. Basically, it was TWO DV cameras, mounted on a wooden platform so that their shots overlapped, resulting in a super-wide yet cost-effective Cinemascope-like panorama. The work of the editors, too, only gets better and better. Tasked, for instance, with cutting the Tokyo/Kyoto show "as if there's gonna be NO eventual voice-over!" or "make it look like you dropped acid and went to Hong Kong!" they again and again rise to--and exceed the challenge. And the increasingly daring post-production graphics by Adam Lupsha have been adding a new dimension of weirdness to the mix: At the end of the Southwest show, he managed to "make" a 16 wheel tractor trailer jack-knife in front of my car, filling the screen. It was a truly astounding shot. Terrifying--even if you knew it was coming and knew how it was achieved. I thought it was the perfect ending to the show. But, people at the network imagined that BMW, who'd lent us the car, might be displeased to see what appeared to be their proudly displayed vehicle "crushed" into a crumple of blood, hair and brake fluid at the end of the show. Too bad. It was an amazing feat of animation.

When I brag about "the Best Food Porn Ever", it's entirely because of the people I work with, the kind of talent at work on this show--behind the lenses, and back at ZPZ Central. I'm very aware that there would be no show without them (I certainly wouldn't go about the fairly undignified business of appearing regularly on TV without them) --and I am enormously grateful.

What else is coming up? And where?

It's (finally) back to Vietnam. The Philippines.. The Azores. Thailand. Provence. Sardinia. And a Detroit/Buffalo/Baltimore hybrid show which (I hope) will pay low rent homage to Curtis Hansen, Vincent Gallo and John Waters respectively (There will NOT be a Pink Flamingos finale, however). Ethiopia (we hope) Cuba. (We hope) . Back to Beirut (eventually). And beyond.

I get to go to a lot of fantastic places on this show. But you should know that when you see a four minute scene of me eating in a three star restaurant, it represents four HOURS of work for three camera people while I enjoy myself at the table, three to five more--for whoever arrived early to shoot kitchen prep and countless more for the post-production people back in New York. A full "hour" show can take up to NINE WEEKS to edit, mix, color correct and so on.

That said, last week, we were in Puebla. Carlos, my old friend from Les Halles, told us to pull the production van over at the side of the road near his home. The follow cars full of relatives pulled in behind us. And then, there we were, no cameras, only me, the crew, Carlos, Martin (our old Mexico fixer from Cook's Tour days), Carlos's Mom and Dad and cousins and nieces, gathered around the thin wooden board constituting the counter of a tiny, neighborhood taco wagon under a naked light bulb. We stood there, drinking Tecates after a long, long day's shoot; the crew happily tearing into tongue, brain, head, eyeball and tripe tacos dressed with fiery sauce. I was proud then too.

As I said, I get to go to a lot of fantastic places--and see many beautiful things on this show. But none more beautiful to me than today, looking out at the town square, my wife spooning that last bit of foamed milk from the bottom of the cup, my little daughter feeding herself olives with two fingers.

Later, around the next corner, on the next cobblestone street--or maybe the one after, there is the promise of gelato.

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.