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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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.

But the train was here, now. A decision had to be made. And Buffalo was looking like a mighty strong contender. Out of thousands of often terrifying submissions, dark figures muttering at the camera from blood-freckled cellar rumpus rooms, there were actually a few really good ones. Nelson Starr's admirably deranged ode to Buffalo was a snowy masterpiece -- if limited in its culinary offerings. It had the advantage of being close. And that it kind of "rawked".

Augusto Elefanio's enthusiastic plea to take him along to the Philippines, so that he could reconnect with his roots, was also excellent and heartfelt and might get the masses of Filipinos who've been (understandably) hectoring me ("Why haven't you been to my country yet?") finally, off my back.

Eric Rivera suggested Thailand -- from a kick-boxer's perspective, in an articulate, compassionate video presenting a place that was already familiar to me and well known for its outrageously varied and delicious cuisine.

And then there was Danya Alhamrani's earnest, professional looking tape urging me to join her in Saudi Arabia -- just about the last place I would ever have considered going.Unfortunately, for my plans to basically rig this whole, shameful project, to pick some marginally comprehensible, and relatively unthreatening fan and spend a few days shooting footage of me comically avoiding the contest winner -- in like, Bermuda, or Montauk, Danya's video was just so damn good. And Saudi Arabia seemed like such a difficult, even foolish option.

I mean, let's face it, how much fun could it be? Most of the hijackers came from Saudi Arabia. They're mostly pretty fundamentalist Muslims! Women cover themselves head-to-toe in black. The men wear head dress and white floor length, skirty things! It's hot --really hot. There's NO BEER!! If any destination was predestined to suck, this was it.

But Danya Alhamrani is an extraordinary woman. And the fact that during finalist interviews, she pretty much challenged me to visit her country and still think ill of it, was well, pretty persuasive. She touched that obstinate streak of contrariness in me that little voice that's always telling me that if I'm sure of a thing -- and everybody agrees with me -- then I'm probably wrong.

And it's nice being wrong. One of the delights of travel is finding, again and again that all your preconceptions, all the conventional wisdom, everything you thought for sure was right -- is, in fact, wrong -- or at least, far from a complete picture. Saudi Arabia, it turned out, was fun. Really!

I urge you to take a look at producer Amy Teuteberg's excellent and provocative crew blog. There's not much I can add to that (and what you see in the show) -- except to lavish even more praise on the remarkable Danya, her friends and family. It's only right, I think, that a tough, independent Western woman's perspective should be most useful and relevant when talking about what the experience was like. It is women, after all, who are denied the right to drive, who must cover themselves in public. So, wheel over to the Crew Blog as soon as you can.

I can only tell you that standard male dress in the Kingdom, the "thobe", felt surprisingly ... liberating. Walking through my hotel lobby, there was a strange relief, a comfort in looking exactly like everybody else. And superb testicular ventilation.

And if there was one really big surprise, it's that so many Saudis we met had a sense of humor. This is not what you'd expect after watching "60 Minutes" or "Dateline" or various hard news descriptions of life in the Kingdom. Fact is we met a lot of funny, good natured, very, very generous people over there. They actually had the capacity to laugh at themselves. They were all too aware of how they look to outsiders. They watch "Friends" and "Oprah" and "American Idol".

Many, many of them were educated abroad. They were scrupulously devout in their faith without being humorless. It was a flawlessly organized and executed shoot -- thanks to newcomer producer Amy, the magnificent Danya, and Dania and many friends -- and in fact, a rollicking good -- if alcohol free -- time. I think a lot of people are going to be surprised by the show.

As a final note, we will, on some snowy winter day, shoot at least part of a show in Buffalo. And Nelson Starr shall surely be our guide. Bangkok is on the horizon for the coming season. And we would be remiss if we did not have Eric Rivera, with his unique perspective and unusual access along for the ride. Plus, my wife wants to take a week or two in mui tai camp there. And just as the Phillipines are long overdue for a show, Augusto Elefanio deserves to have his dreams come true.

So with luck, everybody, as they say, is a winner.

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!

But the fact is:

Things WERE fucked up. My Russian pal, Zamir, who had helped make such good shows in Russia and Uzbekistan, was definitely NOT a good choice to show me around Romania. I think, if nothing else, we made that explicitly clear.

The "Motel Dracula" was, in fact, just as bad a time as it looked. Maybe we fucked up picking that spot as something to cover. Though it's certainly representative of a resurgent, Dracula-based tourist industry. What we DID show you, at least, was exactly how awful it was--and how unhappy I was to be part of such a bogus scene.

The scene at Vlad The Impaler's statue in Bucharest was not atypical of the kind of "cooperation" and last-minute shakedowns we found whenever we tried to shoot at a "typical" everyday restaurant.

Even WITHOUT cameras, looking just for a relaxed meal, we'd often enter a near empty restaurant, ask if a table was available--and have the waiter tell us "No" in the surliest of terms. WITH cameras--asking if we could shoot was an invitation to either an instinctive "NO" or an invitation to gouging. As waiters and hosts it seems, work on salary--rather than tips, no one really seemed to care about more business, promoting their business or even making more money. People are still uncomfortable in general about being filmed. Understandable, given Romania's history that many would be reluctant to have their picture taken--as this rarely led to anything good back in the bad old days.

But to describe Romania as particularly friendly? Not really. I've been all over the world. Over 50 countries. On the friendly scale? Romania not exactly in the top 40. The food--on camera, off camera? Didn't matter. It was mostly pretty primitive. Soups may taste good--but they don't make interesting television. I could lie. But I ain't gonna.

Which is really what it's all about, isn't it? Should I--when faced with a show that's clearly going wrong--as far as depicting good times and good food--do my best to LIE about it? Put on my best, tightest smile and slog through an hour, yammering a lot of utter bullshit about what a great time I'm having and how good the food is and how friendly the people? You can see that on every other travel and food show. Or get it straight from the tap--at the Tourist Board. This show never pretended to have any responsibility to show the "best" of any place--or the "top ten" of anything. Or to even be diplomatic. I, me, Anthony Bourdain went to Romania. I made some bad decisions. And this is the show I came back with. At the end of the day? That's what happened. That's what it felt like. Period. Frankly? I think it's a pretty funny show.

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.