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By: Anthony Bourdain First thing I thought about when they told me that we were closing in our 100th episode of NO RESERVATIONS was, “Wow! Has it been that long? That’s a crap load of shows! Todd must have shot about 97 of them! That’s gotta have been a LOT of air miles.” Slightly more [...]
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They said it couldn’t be done. Others, sensibly enough, asked why we would want to do it in the first place.
We were assured that ratings inevitably will plummet, and that much of our core audience will be outraged by this abominable, doomed exercise in self indulgence (and that is surely true).

But I think this is our finest hour. It’s what we were put on this earth for–to cause terror and confusion at the network, to alienate our fans who were beginning to feel comfortable with us, to try something that–as far as I can tell–has never been done: A full hour of food and travel television in black and white.

This Monday night, the Rome episode is, to my mind, far and away the most beautifully crafted, technically accomplished episode of NO RESERVATIONS ever. It was a lot of work. We are–ordinarily–a shoot and scoot, digital outfit. Two camera people, two producers (one of whom packs a third camera). Generally speaking, we don’t have lights–or people to hang them. We don’t have a sound guy. We certainly don’t have hair or make-up people or wardrobe, gaffers, gofers or camera assistants. But a while back, during a late night, liquor fueled conversation at a hotel bar–somewhere on the other side of an ocean, my two Emmy Award-winning “directors of photography” (as they like to now refer to themselves) Zach Zamboni and Todd Liebler and I were throwing knucklehead ideas around, and somebody boasted that “we’re so damn good, we can shoot a whole show in black and white!”

I was inspired by this confident chest thumping. Traditionally, the “travel show” adheres to a fairly standard structure and formula. Even for us–we lucky few who’ve been allowed the freedom and latitude to mess with content and style however we like–there are boundaries.

There must be a beginning, commercial breaks, presumably an end with some kind of resolution. This becomes, surprisingly, more of a straitjacket than you might think when you’re dealing with a “story” that inevitably concerns: “Tony goes someplace. He eats a lot of stuff. He sees some things. He leaves–hopefully with some final thoughts.”

After nearly a hundred episodes, we’re always, always looking for new ways to tell that same basic story in new and disorienting ways. I’m always hoping that whoever tuned in last week and loved the show will tune in the next week and go, “What the **** is this? “and then, after a double-take, have to check the listings to make sure they’re even watching the same program.

So, after another round or two of negronis or mai tai’s or gin and tonics or whatever we were drinking at the time, I ventured to pursue the matter–even pushing things..a bit. Or a lot.

“How about we like…go to Rome and do like a total early Fellini thing..with stationary cameras..letterbox format…and lots of dubbing and subtitles….and green screen driving shots—and like that whole 1960′s Nino Rota music thing? And I mean like really do it. Not some cheesy homage. I mean really rip off the look and sound in every shot from beginning to end. Make it look like a ****in’ movie!! It’ll be awesome!!”

Back at the office, more sober minds like our Executive producers/zero point zero masterminds Chris Collins and Lydia Tenaglia pointed out that Fellini had a crew of at least 50 or more people. He shot film, with huge cameras, hundreds of lights, tractor trailer trucks to haul the stuff. Hell–he rebuilt the Trevi Fountain for La Dolce Vita!! We probably couldn’t do that it was pointed out. Plus, he was Fellini–one of the greatest directors in the history of cinema. We, decidedly, were not.

And there was the matter of a little thing called the budget. You want to make something that looks and sounds and feels like a movie, it costs. A lot. A whole helluva lot more than our cheap-ass little travel show can afford. Hell, way things are going, any day now, you’ll see me on camera in my hotel room, just “happening ” to be tidying up with a Swiffer–so we can afford new knee pads for Todd–and lens cleaner for Zach. But Zach and Todd assured me that they personally would haul and hang the large number of (hefty) lights. That we’d find a way. That we could do it. That through patience, persistence, an incredible amount of hard work–good advance scouting, the spirit of improvisation–and the acquired skills of two of the best shooters on television-that together we could make a show that–if nothing else–other camera people, editors, cinematographers and professionals from other shows would come up to us years down the line and say about: “Dude…that Rome show? The one in black and white? That was some ****ed up cool shit! Wish somebody would let me try that!”

We commissioned original music. (I’m particularly fond of the bizarro scat singing during the driving sequences–a dead-on homage to my favorite mid-60′s cheeseball classic, “The 10th Victim”). We rented a studio and a classic Alfa Romeo convertible for some quick interstitial “transit beats”. And Rome itself conspired to help us make the mini-movie we wanted. Because the “movie Rome” I was looking for is still there. And mixed in with the deliberately “artificial” look, some incredibly fortuitous, happy accidents befell us. The fight in the “Angry Cousins” restaurant is not staged or pre-arranged. It happened just that way. The nighttime streets looked just like that–only even more dramatic in black and white. The food was amazing. My co-star Cesare Casella–and our local fixers found us amazing locations–with the twin (and potentially conflicting) agendas to find spots that were both authentically and specifically Roman and exclusively locals-oriented–as well as being visually reminiscent of scenes from such films as La Dolce Vita, 81/2, L’Eclisse and so on.

All participants were encouraged to wear solid and contrasty black and white colors whenever possible. Attention was payed to such things as sunglasses. Everybody in post production at zeropointzero was challenged to bring their very best game. In the end, after much experimenting, it was found that individually hand tinting each food item seen on screen with just a little bit of color really made the delicious food jump out of the frame.

La Dolce Vita, of course, was largely shot in the studio. The Via Veneto in that film was not real. Much of the Trevi, as I mentioned before, was rebuilt on a set.. Certainly the interiors were not shot on location. All dialogue in Fellini films was dubbed in later. We, however, shot entirely on location (except for two quick driving shots)–trying to make the “real” look like its romantic–if frequently artificial–predecessor. Other than the clothes, the car, a clown–and about twenty seconds of dialogue, everything happened as you see it. Unlike our poor, misunderstood, insane, overscripted masterpiece in Tuscany (a glorious failure), this show had no “script”–only a very rigorous adherence to a specific look and sound. We did, however, go to extreme lengths to get those things.

So. To the credits. The people responsible for this most difficult and crack-brained yet noble enterprise:
Tom Vitale had the thankless task of producing this thing from beginning to end.. When we returned from the road with this idea and presented it to him, I don’t think it dawned on him that it would fall to him to execute this dark vision. When later, at the first pre-production meeting, Chris and Lydia tried, in his presence to talk me down from this Von Stroheim-esque excess, Tom had the expression on his face of a condemned man. To say he rose to the occasion would be an egregious understatement. He embraced the Beast–to magnificent effect. He made the impossible and unreasonable–possible.

Cameraman, director of photography Zach Zamboni was probably what Tom was thinking about when he sat, doomed-looking in the zero point zero offices. He knew what kind of perfectionist, time consuming lighting schemes this show would require. The kind of careful framing. The agonizing over choice of lenses. This show was giving Zamboni a virtual license to kill. Tom knew–we all knew, that if we went ahead with this thing, we’d all be spending hours watching Zach fiddling with equipment, bouncing lights–driving us out of our ****ing minds. Which is, of course, one of the major reasons the end result is so good. In black and white, apparently, lighting is everything. It’s a good sign, by the way, when Zach giggles insanely while working. It means he likes what he sees through the lens. He did a lot of giggling on this shoot. He sounded like Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo in “Kiss of Death”.

Todd Liebler shot–as he always does–some of the most gorgeous food porn ever seen on television–all the more remarkable in this case because it’s (mostly) in black and white! He’s the Thurman Munson of shooters. Every day, every night, one championship shot after another. There’s also a humanity in Todd’s work that’s easy to overlook. Again and again he sees what everybody else would have missed–and gets the shot. By any means necessary. This also makes him the shooter most likely to get punched out by strangers. He also stepped into an important on-camera role as lunch companion when my wife, Ottavia, insisted she wouldn’t appear on camera unless Todd joined us. She, it must be said, was on the side of the skeptics regarding the advisability of this episode. I only managed to get her to agree to be on when I said I needed a “chesty Italian woman” to sit next to me in a driving scene. She considered the alternatives and agreed, saying it was preferable to having what she so diplomatically calls “some plastic surgery whore” sitting in a car next to her husband.

Veteran field producer Jared Andrukanis was the only guy who made it all look like business as usual, delivering (as always) a flawlessly organized shoot. I’ve found that you can pretty much call Jared up in the middle of the night, ask him for a tarpaulin, a hacksaw, some large plastic trash bags–a shovel and some quick-lime and he won’t be flustered for a second. Ten minutes later he’s there, ready to get choppy.

Roman fixers Sara Pampaloni and Valeria Iannozzi were superbly organized–totally “got” what we were looking for–and delivered exactly everything as planned (a remarkably rare situation). Sara’s choice of her personal favorite “The Angry Cousins” was particularly brilliant.
Chef Cesare Casella was the perfect sidekick/guide–as always. A delight on camera and off.

Post-production graphics guy Adam Lupsha (I don’t even know his real job title) made his usual magic–only more so. And Eric Lasby, who edited this behemoth, created what I think is his best show–ever. And that’s a very very high bar to go beyond. There are no great shows without great editors–and if you look closely at this one, you’ll see, how important the seamless transitions are, the selection of shots, the pace and sequence. Without his work, all the great footage, all that great food and scenery doesn’t count for shit.

I sound, I know, like I’m accepting an Oscar when the fact is, I expect this show to be widely reviled. But I’m enormously grateful that we were able to do it all. That it’s so beautiful. For the experience of being in Rome with friends, being as creative as we could be. For being part of making something we can all look back on and be proud of. It was one of the rare shows where at end, I felt the same way I used to feel at the end of a busy Saturday night in the kitchen. When I’d sit down, look at my co-workers and think: We did good work here today.

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Anthony Bourdain is celebrating 100 Episodes of No Reservations on Monday, September 6. Got a tribute for Tony? Say congrats or tell him what you would do 100 times. Upload your message to YouTube or post it to Twitter. We might even show it on the air.

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I’m frankly delighted to be out of the country when tonight’s WHERE IT ALL BEGAN special airs. While it’s a very good piece of film making by a very distinguished gentleman named Dmitri Kasterine (who put over a year of his life into it), I dearly wish I were not the subject. I just can’t bear looking back at that black-haired, post-crack-skinny, arrogant twerp. I’ve said elsewhere that I “had” to be arrogant to get through the day but looking at this guy (me) eleven years ago, not fifty dollars to my name, unpaid rent hanging over my head, years of back taxes and credit card debt, no real accomplishments (and plenty of wasted advantages) to my credit….and I thought, already, that I knew everything. Standing there in my restaurant, my first real book newly situated on the best seller list–and I was clueless. I had no idea–no IDEA what kind of tractor trailer was headed down the pike and straight up my ass. I see a guy standing on the precipice…and my instinct is (after slapping him a few times) to yell back at him. Warn him. But what would I tell him? And would I have listened?

It turned out okay in the end, I guess. I won’t be watching the contortions of my younger self on TV because I’m on family vacation near my wife’s hometown on Lago di Garda in Italy. Absurdly delicious gelati in the medieval village down from my hotel, bigoli con sarde for lunch, later, maybe some fegato a la Veneziana with some rough, country-ass wine. There are Roman ruins strewn around the area like the discarded party favors of the Gods. My daughter is learning to swim. I will be answering all e-mails with a curt “no” or “regrets”.

An e-mail I am responding to, however, is the one informing me of the death of Michael Batterberry, founder and publisher (along with his wife, Ariane) of Food Arts magazine.

Michael was one of the first people anywhere to treat me like a writer–back when I was an anonymous, line-cooking journeyman chef, long before Kitchen Confidential. The Food Arts offices were down the street from Les Halles and he’d stop in often, always–always–impeccable in pin-striped, bespoke suits. He seemed, from outward appearances, the last person in the world who would know me–or care much what the hell I had to say. But he did. He assigned me articles, talked with me about the industry, asked my opinion at a time when no one else cared. The cover photo of Kitchen Confidential was, in fact, originally commissioned by Michael for Food Arts. It illustrated the article I wrote for him, “Mission To Tokyo”, which later appeared in slightly different form in the book.

The menacing looking blade I’m holding in that picture is a 16th century Japanese ceremonial sword that Michael borrowed from the Asia Society. He was from before the beginning–and until the end of his life, fiercely supportive of my writing. It should be noted that he and his wife were also the founders of Food and Wine magazine, created specifically as an antidote to the stuffy content in food magazines of the day. That together they wrote a number of excellent books–including the superb ON THE TOWN IN NEW YORK, probably the best history of the New York restaurant and dining scene you can find. (I relied heavily on it for Typhoid Mary).

That Food Arts was way ahead of its time in that it focused on CHEFS at a time when everybody else was looking at bundt cakes or refrigerators. Their column on chefs’ movements from restaurant to restaurant–as close to a gossip column as it got in the industry, was something of a revelation. Clearly somebody was reading about chefs. Somebody cared about them. I filed that knowledge away for future use.

My fondest memory of Michael Batterberry is when he called me up out of the blue and invited me to dinner at LE VEAU D’OR, an old, criminally neglected restaurant on the Upper East Side near Bloomingdales. I must have walked by the place a hundred times but I’d never been in. Michael delightedly pointed out the menu–unchanged since the forties–and assured me that I would love the place. He was right. It was–and remains–one of the last places in New York where you can get the good old stuff, the French food of my childhood, a selection of dishes so passe, so out of fashion–and in an environment untouched by time. It is a magical place and it spoke volumes about Michael that he would choose it–of all places–to take me to dinner. It says you have a big heart when you love LE VEAU D’OR –and a sentimental streak a mile wide. Michael had both.

You can see Michael and I reliving that meal on the Disappearing Manhattan episode of NO RESERVATIONS. I’m grateful to him for so many things. That restaurant is just one of them.

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A few days ago, the city of Cleveland lost a truly great and important man. And I’m not talking about LeBron James. A hundred years from now, few–other than a few sports nerds–will remember him as much more than statistics on a long ago basketball court.

They will, however, remember Harvey Pekar, whose life and works will surely remain an enduring reference point of late 20th and early 21st century cultural history. Like those other giants of their eras, Twain, Whitman, Dos Passos, Kerouac, Kesey, the times he lived in cannot adequately be remembered without him.

It is true enough to say that he was the “poet laureate of Cleveland” or to describe his American Splendor as “Homeric”, but those descriptives are still inadequate. He was the perfect man for his times, straddling…everything: the underground comic revolution of the 60′s, the creation and transformation of the graphic novel, independent film, television, music (the classic jazz he championed relentlessly throughout his life).

He was famed as a “curmudgeon”, a “crank” and a “misanthrope” yet found beauty and heroism where few others even bothered to look. In a post-ironic and post-Seinfeldian universe he was the last romantic–his work sincere, heartfelt, alternately dead serious and wryly affectionate. The last man standing to wonder out loud, “what happened here?”

His continuing compulsion to wonder what’s wrong with everybody else was both source of entertainment and the only position of conscience a man could take.

After all, Cleveland, the city he lived in and loved, had, he reminded us, lost half it’s population since the 1950s. A place whose great buildings and bridges and factories had once exemplified 20th century optimism needed its Harvey Pekar.

“What went wrong here?” is an unpopular question with the type of city fathers and civic boosters for whom convention centers and pedestrian malls are the answers to all society’s ills but Harvey captured and chronicled every day what was–and will always be–beautiful about Cleveland: the still majestic gorgeousness of what once was–the uniquely quirky charm of what remains, the delightfully offbeat attitude of those who struggle to go on in a city they love and would never dream of leaving.
What a two minute overview might depict as a dying, post-industrial town, Harvey celebrated as a living, breathing, richly textured society.

A place so incongruously and uniquely…seductive that I often fantasize about making my home there. Though I’ve made television all over the world, often in faraway and “exotic” places, it’s the Cleveland episode that is my favorite–and one about which I am most proud.

That show was unique among over a hundred others in that everything–absolutely everything–went perfectly and exactly as planned. Unlike every other episode, pretty much everything had been “written” (or at least planned out) in advance: the look, the American Splendor graphics, destinations, subjects and content. In the middle of a blizzard in the dead of winter, we got exactly what we were looking for. We wanted American Splendor and that’s what we got.

This is due entirely to Harvey (and the incredible Joyce). Harvey may have had a reputation as cantankerous, TV-averse and difficult but from the very first minute he and his family were a delight. They opened up their lives to us in every way they could. They were exactly as they appeared in the great graphic novels and in the film–only warmer and even nicer.

The look, the tone, the sound, the whole feel of the episode that followed was Harvey’s. There was a moment at Sokolowski’s I’ll always remember as quintessential Pekar–that perfectly encapsulated the way we all felt absorbed in to PekarWorld. We’d just finished shooting a scene with Harvey, Toby Radloff and Michael Ruhlman–and Danielle, Harvey’s daughter, who’d been hanging out off- camera, temporarily went missing–out of Harvey’s watchful gaze. I remember looking at him, swiveling his head frantically, the very picture of parental concern and exasperation and actually SEEING comic book curlicues, exclamation points, question marks and smoke emanating from his head. He had made the world around him his world. We were–all of us– just passing through.

A few great artists come to “own” their territory.
As Joseph Mitchell once owned New York and Zola owned Paris, Harvey Pekar owned not just Cleveland but all those places in the American Heartland where people wake up every day, go to work, do the best they can–and in spite of the vast and overwhelming forces that conspire to disappoint them–go on, try as best as possible to do right by the people around them, to attain that most difficult of ideals: to be “good” people.

“Our man” as Harvey often referred to himself in his work, was a good man. An important man. A “great American” is an expression that has been cheapened with over-use, but if these words ever meant anything, they surely describe Harvey Pekar.

He was great. He was American.

For him to have come from anywhere else would be unthinkable. He will be remembered. He will be missed.

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In other news, over at http://bourdainmediumraw.com, we’re running a contest associated with my latest book. The best 500 word essay gets published in a future paperback edition of MEDIUM RAW.

My publisher and I thought this was a pretty good prize for a previously unpublished writer of a short essay. But it has been widely suggested that this was in fact a cruel, cynical and exploitative exercise in “crowd-sourcing”. That instead of writing a few new paragraphs myself, we decided that this was somehow an easier, more cost-effective strategy for providing “content”–ripping off eager aspiring writers.

By way of demonstrating my continuing commitment to the written word–and because I frankly don’t like to be accused of ripping anybody off, I will personally be delivering $10,000–in cash–in a brown paper bag–to the fine people at eater.com.

Their excellent editor (and champion of exploited writers) Mr. Raphael Brion has generously agreed to accept delivery of this prize–and present it to the contest winner.

This money is in no way sponsored by, agreed to, or associated with my publisher, Harper Collins or Ecco. It is an entirely independent offering–on top of and in addition to–the original prize.

So. Let’s get this straight: You go to BOURDAINMEDIUMRAW.COM. You manage to win the official competition. Independent of that official prize, you will be contacted by me. Shortly after which you will arrange with Mr. Raphael Brion of eater.com to receive ten thousand dollars.

Got it? Good.

So…..start writing.

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As is all too apparent, I’m getting old fast. An upcoming special–shot independently in 1999, illustrates (painfully) how old and how fast: I look–only 11 years ago–as someone who could pass for my own son. But the latest edition of Cigar Afficionado has just saved me from any delusional moves towards convertible coupes, lift and tuck or Just For Men.

I’m walking through an airport and passing a Hudson News and from a hundred feet away, I see something…strikingly…unreal against the back wall. It’s an image that sticks out a mile from all the other magazines. A big, doughy, lumpy, unnaturally black and tan image—-like a cartoon, gaping out at me.

“What the **** is that?” I ask myself, stopping dead in my tracks–riveted to the ground by this…this…..thing.
I move closer–drawn like a rubbernecker to the scene of a car accident. Oh my God! It’s hideous! It’s unholy! It’s Sylvester Stallone!!

How, I ask myself immediately, could anyone–Mr. Stallone, his publicist, his agent, his minions–or the editors of the magazine–have allowed this…this…image to be seen by anyone? Who–for a second–would believe that this is in any way a representation of a human face? Stallone is what? Sixty? And yet–look: the jet black hair. The equally black eyebrows, the face seemingly stretched, filled, plumped and filled. It’s like a child’s recollection of a face–as interpreted in Play-Doh. And yet…it’s strangely familiar:
Suddenly, with a frisson of recognition–a Proustian waft of something sweet and gooey emanating from the Cinabonn at the other end of the terminal, I remember. I recognize this face after all!

It’s Mister Potato Head!!! Beloved childhood toy! Friendly tuber with interchangeable features! The shiny black helmut of hair, the eyebrows and expression snapped onto molded plastic. I LOVE Mister Potato Head! I just don’t want to look like him.

Is there no one in this poor man’s life who cares enough to say: “Sly! Dude…..You sure you wanna leave the house like that?” Hell, the super of my building wouldn’t let me out the door looking like that–and we’re not even close. He’d stop me in my tracks–for sure: “Oh, man! That is ****ed up, brother! You get back upstairs and wash that **** out right now.”

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I’m done.

My mad run cross country, held up by copious amounts of Afrin, Sudafed, throat spray, asperin, Woodford Reserve, Red Bull and beer is over. I’d gripe about grim hotel bathrooms and sleeping on airport floors but instead want to thank all the people who had it a lot worse than me–who cheerfully drove for hours, stood out in the heat and sun, lined up in sweaty theater lobbies, got stacked into bookstores with struggling air conditioning, were herded into lines–and then flung in the general direction of yours truly –all for a blurry photo and a hurried signature.

I hope I spelled your name right.

I hope that in my exhausted, post-gig, flash-addled and punch-drunk fugue state, I managed a smile–that I looked you in the eyes, that I said something remotely engaging–something grateful. If you feel like you ponied up, stood around for hours–and were then processed through the production line like a bad sandwich, I’m truly sorry. I did my best.

I remember a lot of your stories–some of them quite remarkable, some incredibly painful, coincidental, tragic, inspiring–and all conveyed in seconds. Thank you.

For the liquor, the T-shirts, the CD’s, pastries, books, the well-timed beers, the chocolates, the homemade preserves, and even the crazy-ass stuff that scared me a little. For buying a whole helluva lot of books. You know who you are.

New episodes start…Monday. The kick-off episode in the Grenadines is something I’ve written about before. Envisioned as a reward for a whole bunch of cold climate shows, it morphed into something…else. It’s an unusual looking show (which makes me happy) and the debut of some new equipment (the Canon 7D still camera), which on video mode, allowed our shooters to do a lot of very wacky, really great-looking stuff that we wouldn’t have been able to do only a few weeks earlier.

Truthfully, it’s often something as simple as a new piece of equipment–the fact that you can shoot awesome, film-quality video footage on a small camera that looks like–well…every other still camera–that inspires me to go forward (I have no affiliation with Canon, I should point out. And neither I, nor anyone I know has recieved anything of value or any consideration at all from them. I just really like what this thing allows us to do). The possibilities of new technology. If we can make a show this weird looking and sounding in the Caribbean–what can we do elsewhere? It’s worth finding out.

Our mantra:
Whatever “worked” last week–whatever it was you liked (or didn’t like)?
Let’s try something else.

Also:
If it causes fear and confusion when they see it at the network? It’s a good day at the office.

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And my jacket, too. Also, I hate my boots, the well worn, floppy ones sitting there forlornly in the corner, the socks, the toilet kit and pretty much everything else.

I’m loading into my suitcase for an insanely packed bounce across America. It’s only two days after my latest book, MEDIUM RAW, was released and already, my pupils float unseeing in my skull, my head is full of mush. I’ve been interviewed about 60 times in the last few days and every time I answer the same question in the same way, I hate myself nearly as much as I hate the contents of my suitcase — whose only crimes are overfamiliarity.

Slipping on my shirt, the boots, packing and repacking over the next few days will, I know, soon come to feel like putting on an old, previously worn jester suit at some rennaissance fair of the Damned. Green Bay, Tulsa, Pittsburgh, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Portland, Seattle, Chicago, Cincinatti, Austin, Miami … Reeling off the names, it sounds like a James Brown song, “Night Train” — which I will no doubt be humming to myself during many pre-dawn drives to airports.

Did I mention my riveting new book, MEDIUM RAW, yet? The perfect Fathers Day gift, birthday present and blunt object? Yes. I think I did.

I probably should have allowed a period of decompression after an idyllic work and play experience in Paris.
Making television in Paris with Eric Ripert (aka “The Ripper”) is decidedly not a chore. When it’s Joel Robuchon feeding you, it’s pretty damn luxurious. And the fact that I could bring my family along … recreating, for instance, from my childhood trips to Paris, happy times in the Tuileries, pushing around sailboats in the fountain with my daughter, her first pony ride. That made it all the better.

Sitting at La Coupole with my wife, in-laws and Eric and savaging a massive shellfish tower, I turn to see my daughter happily slurping oysters. A few moments later, recognizing her friend “Sebastian”, the adorable lobster from “The Little Mermaid” perched atop a pile of crushed ice, she calls his name — followed by “Num, num!!” and not allowing sentiment to stand in the way of deliciousness, proceeds to rip the meat out of his tail and devour him. Daddy’s little girl. So proud.

The Paris shoot was a rare example of everything — absolutely everything — going right. Just as planned — or better. It’s going to be an amazing, extremely food-centric episode and it’s appropriate, I think, that for our ONE HUNDREDTH EPISODE, we are returning to the location of our very first.

Also in the mix for this next block of shows? Liberia, Kerala, India; the American Heartland, a return to Beirut, a mind-blowing masterwork of cinematography in Rome, a deeply embarrasing look back at an independent film shot in my kitchen at Les Halles in 2000 — just as Kitchen Confidential was coming out, investigations in Dubai, a dysfunctional and even more disturbing than last time Holiday Special with some very surprising guests, and Madrid.

Did I leave anything out? I think I did. I’m pretty sure, though that I mentioned MEDIUM RAW — the hilarious, eye-searingly, funny yuk-fest that everybody — okay not everybody — but some — people are talking about.

Available in bookstores everywhere.

See you on the road.

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I get a perverse and evil satisfaction out of putting members of my crew on camera at every opportunity. Their discomfort–particularly once the “vampire clip” microphone is attached to the inside of their shirt (and they have to remember that every trip to the bathroom might provide considerable amusement to the guy wearing the headphones in the other room) — is exquisite. The shoe on the other foot as they say…Those used to heedlessly pointing the cameras at others are suddenly caught under its merciless and unwavering gaze. Every pimple, bad pant decision, errant hair, ill advised comment potentially the subject of timeless Comedy Gold.

Producer Tracey Gudwin knows this all too well: her inside-out underpants captured forever on YouTube when I plucked a leech off her ass in Borneo. Cameraman Todd Liebler has been chased across the town square of a rural Chinese village by Asian fans shrieking “Mr. Clumsy-Man! MISTER CLUMSY MANNN!!!” — famous as he is for a memorable blunder into plates on the Indonesia show.

But knowingly putting down the camera, clipping on the sound pack and agreeing to take your colleagues to your home — introducing them to your family, letting them wander freely in your small New England town, interrogating passersby, former schoolteachers, childhood friends — that takes some guts. Especially knowing what Zach Zamboni knows about our work habits.
His poor grandmother had to endure persistent on-camera interrogation from me about any possible episodes of peeping, fire-starting, or mistreatment of animals in Zach’s early childhood (She neatly deflected my questions as smoothly and effortlessly as a mob lawyer).

Zach’s a born and bred Mainer — raised in the small town of Milo — and real proud of that fact. Unlike the rest of us on the crew, who, when a show is done, return to apartments in New York, Zach goes home, puts on a funny hat and — I gather — does all sort of Dinty Moore type stuff like chopping wood and sailing. Whenever I’d ask him about this while on the road, he’d be so insistent as to the glories of his home state that I finally challenged him to show us. For this, he will no doubt be punished.

Generally, when you’re proud enough to take me around a place for purposes of television, the reaction from fans runs along the lines of “How could you NOT take him to (fill in blank here).” Followed by vitriolic expressions of doubt that you were a “true” local.

Zach will no doubt be taken to task by food bloggers (of which Maine has many) for NOT taking me to the “best” restaurant in Portland. By others for managing to avoid the lobster roll entirely. Or, perhaps, not being sufficiently foodie, chesty, or vivacious.
To which I can only remind viewers that this show will never show “YOUR” Baltimore…or “the best” of anything. I felt no responsibility to have a maple syrup scene. This episode is about Zach’s Maine. And frankly, the closer we got to Zach’s little town of Milo — and his family — the happier I was with my time there. For me, Maine will always be a golden hour, post-breakfast, swacked on Crown Royal, shotgunning snowmen with Zach’s cousin Bobby.

I’m particularly honored that the brilliant, reclusive and extraordinary John Conte actually came out of his kitchen and sat down with us in the dining room. This is, I am assured, no small thing. And I am forever grateful for the original hardbound copy of “My Life and Loves” by Frank Harris that John just happened to have tucked among a pile of saute pans — and which he gave me.
Zach, for all the days and hours we’ve spent together over the years in faraway places, has always been something of a mystery to me. He’s a man who’s always seemed happiest when dangling from the skids of a helicopter, strapping himself to the bow of a speedboat, or fiddling for interminable periods of time with lens adaptors, home made gyros or strings of jury-rigged lightbulbs. But I think I know something else about him now — having seen it first hand: what makes him happy about being a Mainer.

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