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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have been warned.