Walking into the Bourdain office as a newcomer, was like being faced with a well-rehearsed double dutch jump rope act and told to join in. When I first started series producing this show in January of this year, the landscape was not totally foreign. I had been an editor on A Cook's Tour many years ago, so I was familiar with the original storytelling format, and I had met Tony once before. But this time, I was entering the production at a different capacity, I was to help oversee the series which was well into its fifth season. Every show runner position is different, and my job in this instance was to retrofit myself to the rhythm of what was already in place and hope that eventually, I could make a difference.

My first task was to wrangle all the material that was shot for the Special, Food Porn, into an entertaining TV hour. I recommended an editor (and friend) who worked on such sex-tinged shows as HBO's Katie Morgan on Sex Toys and Cathouse, The Pimpmaster General. When she just happened to be available, I thought the stars had aligned and this was meant to be. Well, it did work out, in a messy kind-of-way. After many long hours and angry, but loving, fistfights and hair-pulling temper tantrums with my editor, we managed to finish the show with no time to spare.

The next memorable rite of passage was to go on location and work with the crew and Tony. While there is nothing more I would rather be doing than produce, shoot and travel, I had sworn off field work 2 years ago so that I could focus on life at the homestead. Suffice it to say, nearly ten years of life on the road does not make for a balanced personal life. So it was with very mixed feelings that I joined the field team in Montana. The thing I remember most fondly, apart from the talents of the crew, is that the folks we met in Livingston were genuine, interesting, and down-to-earth....but I felt like my producer skills were a bit rusty and I was not altogether on top of my shooting game. Many months have since passed, and that part of the experience is all thankfully, behind me. From the very beginning, I had been told by my Exec. Producer, Lydia, that this was not your typical formatted series. I was like, huh, how can that be? Now I know better. When it comes to the details of the storytelling, it's like starting over with each new show.

Ok, well let's face it, the backbone of this particular job is getting to know your host and that would be Tony... getting to know his likes and dislikes, and making sure we're creatively in synch. When we first started working together back in January, he wouldn't give me eye contact when we talked. I thought, he doesn't like me, hell, he doesn't even remember me, even though he assured me that he did. We have nothing in common... I hardly drink, I was vegetarian at one point, and I do things like yoga and lemon cleanses. This does not bode well, I thought. Well since those early days, there seems to exist a copacetic working relationship. There are some things I've come to expect, along the way. I wouldn't say I know his mind, but I do know that I can never anticipate his reactions, no one seems to be able to master that, not even the ABNR veterans. And so now when I get an occasional not-so-pleasant email, I don't let it get to me. I take them as, just his no-nonsense way of making sure the series remains top-notch, and an initiation-of-sorts into the ABNR family fold. -- A recipient of uncensored Bourdain emails?...that must mean I'm in!

These days, I think I've got the double dutch act down. Season 5 has ended and we were within budget, we didn't miss an airdate, and the network execs seem happy with the ratings, which means the fans are still tuning in. Season 6 is already well underway...and the jump ropes continue to circle round and round, like the hands of a clock. Is it due to momentum, inertia, or Tony's enthusiastic slew of crack-the-whip emails, I don't know.... But lest I think I can become creatively complacent in this job, I know better. I've found that on No Reservations, there is room to evolve, experiment with, and yes, even subvert the creative process, like no other. So do I feel like I trip every once in awhile along the way, yes....do I start over and pick up again to try something new, sure. But I'm realizing that it's ok. This is par for the course when it comes to working with Tony, and I've learned to love it.

The helicopter was small...very small...and shaking. No bouncing, really. It was bouncing up and down, up and down. My teeth were rattling. Todd and Zach were sitting next to me, filming Tony in the front seat. With one large coastal updraft, Todd flew up in the air, slow-motion, "Todd-ass" blurring my vision...he landed on my lap. I bit my tongue. Todd farted. I puked in my mouth. It was 6am.

It was pouring rain and windy...our first bad weather day our whole shoot in Chile and here is Tony, Zach, Todd and myself trying to helicopter to our shooting location in this shit weather. Was this a good idea?

"Oh, no problem!" says Mr. Helicopter man. "If it's bad, we just come down."

"No problem," Tony concurs, totally nonchalantly. Um, ok fine. No problem. But what does, "we just come down" mean, Tony? Keep in mind, Tony is wearing a pine-green, rain poncho and smiling. It's weird. REALLY weird. It's early. I didn't see Tony have coffee. It's pouring and we're about to helicopter to an island and "work" all day. This isn't usually "Tony-smiling" time. He started to give me promos ("Catch it!") and I wasn't even asking...IN THE RAIN! This was NOT going to be a normal day.

So where was I? Oh yeah, I puked in my mouth. I pushed Todd over to his seat. "Film Tony. Film Tony!" I yell over the sound of the propeller, the wind, the chaos. We start circling around the islands, just off land...over the Pacific. I can't really tell if the "circling" is intentional or not. It feels slightly "out-of-control" which can be a good thing...when not in a helicopter over the ocean in Chile! Mr. Helicopter Man points over the horizon.

"It doesn't look good!" yells Tony as we all see over the horizon the darkest, most ominous, hurricane-like front that you've ever seen...from a helicopter. I guess this is the time "we just come down." But, like, um...where, Mr. Helicopter Man? We're over the raging Pacific with jagged f**** rocks below us?!!

But, lucky for us, we land in a clearing. Safe. No helicopter today. The rest of our crew, 3 hours away by land, are waiting for us...on a boat...ready to go to an island to film. I'm on the phone with my segment producer, Emily. She is NOT happy. We have a full act to shoot today. WHAT DO WE DO?

Well, Tony still has this shit-eating grin on his face, soaked, in that f***** green poncho. "I guess we'll have to go back to the hotel and have some breakfast?" he says...totally innocent looking. I'm starting to think he's controlling more than the show content here at this point. I really don't know what to do. Tomorrow we are flying back to the States. I don't have a full show!

So hotel...coffee, fire. Tony tells me "Rennik, don't worry. It's all GOING TO BE FINE." My crew are wet and distraught. The weather is awful. It doesn't feel like it's going to be "fine." I decide to call the bosses...see if we can salvage something.

OK. I dial the States...voicemail of the executive producer on the line. "Hello, you've reached (BLANK), please leave a message..."

Tony gets up and says "Well Rennik, I think I'm going to get a massage...tell me what we're doing next...but give me a few hours, k? I'm tired." I watch him walk away in fuzzy hotel slippers.

I'm startled by the "Beeeeeeeeeeeeep...." I hear on the other end of the line. My mouth drops to the floor. Silence. What do I say?

Oh shit...I knew it wasn't going to be a "normal" day...

As a segment producer my job is full of logistics. From beginning to end it is an enormous checklist of details that all need to fall into place at the exact time and date that our unforgiving schedule requires. One of these details is transportation. Our mode of transport can be anything from a 15-passenger van, minibus, boat, or helicopter to a horse-drawn cart. You name it we've used it and without it we wouldn't have a show.

Weeks before our Sardinia shoot I hunted for the best rates, the most reputable company, etc when it finally sunk in just how remote this island really was and how limited our choices were becoming.

My research turned up a fleet of small compact cars of every make and model. Each car would house a cameraman and one equipment case if we were lucky. Not nearly the capacity we required. We would have to rent a small fleet of them, a Peugeot Parade wherever we traveled. A long line of 13 compact cars each filled to the brim with cameras, gear, crew, local sidekicks, guides and of course Tony. This was definitely not an option.

Slightly panicked I phoned our extraordinary fixer, Lisa. A fixer is someone we hire in the country we will be shooting to help us with all sorts of details, translation, and guide. Lisa and I brainstormed all sorts of possibilities. We spent hours making phone calls only to discover there was one van left for rent... in Florence. Lisa volunteered to ferry the van from Florence across the ocean to Sardinia. We were still short one van though and there was nothing left anywhere near our destination.

All solutions in the old country are initiated with a phone call to a cousin. Lisa's cousin Nicola, a local college-aged, longhaired musician capable of eloquent and lengthy diatribes on anti-globalization had an answer. How about a 1970'ish campervan landlocked in the backyard of a neighbor's wheat field? Hmm. Does the fridge work?

At the airport we found Nicola and the camper curbside. Parting the passenger door pom-pom curtains the camper revealed the burnt orange breakfast nook and bunk beds from your childhood trip to the Grand Canyon.

Against all odds this thing hauled, it's engine roaring up and down the rugged mountain roads and switchbacks found all over Sardinia. We must have driven the old girl 200-300 miles per day over the course of our weeklong schedule. It quickly became the "happy hour" bus. We all rushed for a spot at the table each night on the ride back to the hotel. For an hour or so we would forget this was work. It felt like a road trip. The fridge stocked with beer, Tony passed out in a bunk, Todd serenading us with Nicola's guitar, mountains of granite and stunning countryside through our windows. Sometimes it's good when things don't go our way. You just can't rent these moments.

Zero Point Zero Production. We are a tight knit crew, a beautifully functioning dysfunctional family even, and I am among the lucky few to have slipped through the cracks and found this home. As a newcomer to the ZPZ crew, I've quickly learned that when shit needs to get done around here, you just do it. When two cameras went down in Panama the other week, Unit Manager Dan flew out with two working cameras only to fly back to NY the next day. When your show gets nominated for Emmys and your boss asks you to order 12 bottles of bubbly, you don't ask questions, you just do it.

Or...like, now, for instance- I'm writing this entry not only because I love this job and would like to cherish its blog-worthy experiences but also because Travel requires it as one of many such things called "deliverables." I am fortunate that my job description as a production assistant here at ZPZ is pretty loose. The face of my work week changes day-to-day and could look like anything ranging from: sending delectable transcripts, logs, releases or other "deliverables" to Travel Channel on a Monday, rounding out the week accompanying producers on shoots to restaurants I can't afford, to coming in on a Sunday to shoot Adam, our graphics guy, in a skin tight full suit unitard with attached ping pong balls.

For this special episode Burning Questions, producer Rennik Soholt asked me to assist him in casting, finding locations, props, and other general production endeavors. Rennik hands me a piece of paper and I look down and take a quick glance. It is the list of scenes that need to get shot for this episode. However, at the top, in parenthesis, is a note from Rennik reassuring that these are all indeed from Tony, not a joke on the newbie, and not just his own imagination running wild. With a curiously mischievous look on his face, he walks back to his desk letting me know to ask if I have any questions.

I look back at the sheet and go through the items one by one. Let's see: An insane looking little boy...a Pet store with exotic animals...a deranged stalker...three dead prostitutes...a rodeo clown with a bong...fan mail...security guards with uniforms and their own weapons...black nail polish...wig...skull rings...stick to poke animals.......do I have any questions?

Okay, first order of business is to find a pet store with exotic animals. It's place of priority is only so I can get it over with, as I'm pretending I don't actually turn into a 11-year-old girl in the presence of snakes, not because this is any more important than dead prostitutes or deranged stalkers, obviously... After many phone calls and a few trips to pet stores around the city, one of which included an interesting encounter with an employee who introduced himself as "Smack" and asked if I were looking for illegal monkeys, I ventured off into the exotic land of Yonkers to find animals more interesting than city cat-rats, where I met the kind folks at the Exotic Pet Warehouse who eventually gave us permission to shoot there. Progress.

Next up: Fan mail. To protect the hardcore ABNR fans of their privacy, we could not show any of the real fan mail Tony actually receives. And since you can't really do a fan show without any fan mail, this, of course, led to a couple of days of full TB fan immersion. Back at the office, our production coordinator Annie, myself and a team of interns found ourselves surrounded in a pool of colorful envelopes, psycho chicken scratch, writing and drawing creepy letters and pictures to Tony. Which, I guess we can say we did a decent job at since when it came time for Tony to read all of them, he asked how we'd gotten into his mail and made it a point to say how he thought it'd be a good idea to push for employee review....

There were still many more people and things yet to find and with our non-existent budget, it was lucky for me, and to my surprise, that there were plenty of actresses who not only were available to play dead prostitutes but willing and excited to play free, unpaid, dead prostitutes (and were also confident that they would be able to provide their own wardrobe...) and this is even after I explained to them that they would not be moving, just straight acting dead on a mattress or sitting lifeless in a chair... I don't know if that says more about Tony or our economy...

With our morning coffees in hand, we pile into the production van and go over the schedule for the day. In the a.m. we shoot at the exotic pet warehouse with our "insane looking" boy and the afternoon we are set to shoot in a seedy basement in Brooklyn decorated with a rodeo clown holding a bong in a wheelchair, a bare mattress and three dead prostitutes. As Annie cuts a wig on Rennik's head, we remind ourselves to not mention the prossies around the kid. Tomorrow is the stalker scene and Tony just added that he would like to get a shot of the stalker wrapped in rugs and the disposal of the body in a garbage dump on the street. He's thinking maybe, a little blood splatter in the elevators for dramatic effect. Not sure it'll fly with the networks but we'll find out later.

Don't want to ruin the magic and spoil all the fun as these few moments capture what only makes up small portions, set ups or interstitials of the show, but I hope that this episode allows for a bit of the antics, the sometimes bizarre but always interesting behind-the-scenes of ABNR.

I guess, I better start looking for rugs and blood now...

I'm a production coordinator for No Reservations. I spend most of my time in the office either kneeling on the floor in front of half-packed pelican cases surrounded by batteries, rolled up gels and scattered chunks of foam or sitting at a desk typing up logs and transcripts. I love this job, because I get to touch professional equipment all the time. I have the honor of helping talented, creative people make shows I am proud of, and because if Chris and Lydia had not decided to give me a chance, I might very well be working at Shop Rite right now. Or worse, on some really crappy show.

But there's something else about me that you need to know. Something ... unusual. Some have made fun of me for it. Some have pitied me, and some have simply recoiled in horror at the very mention of my condition. You see I am ... a Staten Islander.
I was born and grew up in Mariner's Harbor on the North Shore. I have lived the majority of my life rambling over the Island's still-green hills and development-cluttered valleys, taking late secondhand buses, and repeatedly explaining to outsiders that Long Island is not the same thing. Staten Island used to be famous for oysters, produce, and the burning of the Quarantine. In my lifetime we've been famous for the dump ("visible from space!"), and as the mayor of Belmar recently pointed out, ill-behaved guidos. Everywhere are the traces of a once-fruitful garden, a paradise nearly destroyed -- the scent of the once-ubiquitous cedars and cherry trees choked out in the 20th century by that of rotting garbage and car exhaust. To me it has always seemed a place full of stories both beautiful and terrible, waiting to be told.

So naturally, when I found out Tony was coming to Staten Island for part of the Outer Boroughs episode, I was quietly thrilled (partially because someone recognized we are a borough!) -- even more so when they asked me to PA on the shoot. Evidently they realized the advantage of having an indigenous guide, perhaps in case any crewmembers were taken hostage by angry natives or contracted obscure island ailments during the trip. Thus one sunny, chilly morning in February I found myself proudly driving our Miss Nari (who was wearing a cute hat) and our illustrious cameraman Mr. Zamboni (who was wearing a monitor strapped to his chest) around the North Shore, picking up B-roll. We cruised around all morning, shooting seagulls, buildings, streets, etc., and trying to avoid injury and law enforcement interference as Mr. Z hung out of the trunk, using the slowly moving car as a giant dolly.

A few hours later, I found myself in the surreal position of standing on David Johansen's porch and ringing his doorbell. David, a native Islander, also known as both Buster Poindexter and the flamboyant lead of the New York Dolls, had agreed to accompany Tony -- and I was picking him up. Sometimes famous people abhor even incidental interaction with plebes like me, so I steeled myself for the worst. With trepidation, I heard the sound of footsteps from inside the house -- the door rattled slightly, then opened -- and suddenly out strode David Johansen himself, tall and lanky, wearing sunglasses, and dressed in black, his pretty girlfriend Mara behind him. "Ah hello there! I'm David," he said, his voice gravelly and mellow at the same time. He smiled, deep friendly creases crossing his cheeks, and shook my hand like I was a human being. Rather overwhelmed as I was at his courtesy, I have absolutely no recollection of what I said to them, but somehow I did not fall over backwards from relief, and we all ended up safely in the car.

David was totally wacky in all the best ways. Naturally theatrical, sarcastic, yet chivalrous and kind, he's the kind of man who calls people "my dear" and tries to make sure everyone has something to eat. As we drove along, he looked out the window with a bemused expression and told stories, quizzed me about life on the Island (to make sure, I suppose that I was a genuine Sepoy as I claimed), made fanciful observations on places we passed, and sang songs with his lady friend to pass the time. In small world fashion, we found that we shared a couple of weird, far-flung connexions -- David and I had attended the same high school, and my father's band had once opened for the Dolls in 1973!

The rest of the day flowed along swiftly and with frequent infusions of weirdness. Tony and David ate together at a Sri Lankan restaurant near the Ferry (David drank a cup of tea to Tony's bottle of beer) and a tiki bar across the street from the landfill (Tony drank something out of a head and David drank juice from an absurdly huge pineapple). I had occasion for concern only a few times -- once when there was something wrong with the crew's power strip (Mr. Z and dear Jerry managed to carry on), then when a wild-eyed civilian wandered in and stood behind Tony, staring directly into the camera, and finally at night when the driver of the car that was supposed to take Tony home got totally lost in the Island's heart of darkness and I had to stay on the phone with the dispatcher for half an hour trying to give directions.

I hope something of the quirky character of the Island comes through in the episode. Islanders (especially the minority whose families have not moved here from Brooklyn in the last 45 years) can be rather sensitive. Experienced as we are in being ridiculed, ignored, used, or at best, misunderstood ("prodigal borough?" Did we do something wrong?), I cannot stomach it when people denigrate the Island on the grounds that it is not enough like someplace else. The Island has always been here -- Aquahonga, hunting and fishing grounds for the Raritans and their forebears for thousands of years, land of the Dutch, French, and English farmers and the free Black oystermen, British stronghold, Union Army training ground, shores full of shipyards, factories full of linoleum, soap, dye and a hundred other things, beaches and hillsides over whose beauty Thoreau himself exclaimed -- and it's still here, and still unlike anywhere else. When they first met on the windy dock, David spun Tony a number of whimsical yarns about our Island's (historically rather polluted) South Beach rivaling Kauai and the Island being a natural paradise, etc. Tony was too polite to say, "What the hell are you talking about?" possibly because he recognized that David may not have been altogether pulling his leg -- a place you love (much like a person) can be a paradise to you, in a way, because of the happy times you have had there, regardless of its current objective appearance. Or ... maybe David was just being absurd and I'm thinking about it waaaay too much.

Watch New York Outer Boroughs on the Travel Channel - Sept. 7 at 10 p.m. E/P

You know, being No Reservation's self-proclaimed #1 "FAN-atic" comes with its fair share of responsibilities...well at least I like to think so. Especially when the host of said show is Anthony Bourdain. It seems few people can inspire the sort of unruly, foul-mouthed, disturbing yet hilarious misbehavior that Tony seems to inadvertently incite from his fan base.

And if having unruly fans that worship him, while simultaneously shitting on every small mistake or misstep he makes, weren't bad enough for the big guy, he is then actually told that he has to share an entire episode of HIS show with one of these lunatics. Enter the concept of the "FAN-atic" special. I'm sure all of you know the story by now. Submit a video telling Tony about a place you would like to show him, why you want to take him there, and possibly win a chance to travel with him and his crew to some exotic destination

Out of thousands of submissions, four were selected. They were then invited to go to New York, where all four potential contestants would face off in a deadly Battle Royale-esque competition where the last one left alive would win the trip with Tony. Well... it wasn't that grim, although I'm sure Tony would have loved that. In the end Danya won the whole shebang and the 3 remaining contestants: Augusto, Nelson, and I were left in the cold. So sad.

But that would not be so. In the final moments of my interrogation in New York at the hands of Tony himself, he said, "Eric, whatever happens when this thing is over, I just want you to know that you and I will be making television together." I took the whole comment as a sort of consolation prize, if and when things didn't turn out in my favor. As much as I wanted to believe Tony's words, I try to at least sometimes, keep my feet grounded in reality. In the end, I felt that the opportunity I was given to travel to New York and sit down for a one on one conversation with Tony, was more than I ever expected was going to happen after submitting my 2-minute video.

Roughly one year after my No Reservations experience in New York, I found myself sitting, exhausted, on the corner stool of the boxing ring at Kiatphontip Muay Thai Gym in the outskirts of Bangkok. We were seconds out from the beginning of round 3 of my fight with the gym's star and resident champion, Jompop Kiatphontip. Tony was in my corner doing his best Burgess Meredith in Rocky impression and telling me, "Whatever you do Eric, just try to avoid those jumping knees to the face he is throwing at you. Those look like they might hurt."

While Tony is giving me advice, two Thai kickboxers roughly between the ages of 9 to 11 are massaging my already bruised legs and telling me, in broken English, to "kick, kick, punch, punch." Producer extraordinaire Tom Vitale, production notebook in hand, paces outside the ring while biting his fingernails, later telling me that he thought we were just going to do some "light sparring." The geniuses behind the camera, Zach Zamboni and Todd Liebler, hover around the ring with dozens of different cameras trying to catch as much of the action as possible, no doubt waiting for that awesome unexpected television moment where Eric gets kicked in the head and knocked senseless. Segment Producer, Diane Schutz, simply watches from the background, amused that I am getting my ass handed to me by a Thai, a little more than half my size.

As the rounds continue and I try to stop Jompop's onslaught of flying kicks, knees, punches, and elbows, I can't help but wonder if Tony is glad that finally, someone other than himself is getting beat up, humiliated, and/or having pain inflicted upon them for the entire world to see. Initially, the idea I pitched to Tony was for him to step in the ring and do a little pad work and maybe do a little light sparring with me. His obvious response, as some of you may have seen in the Saudi Arabia/"FAN-atic" episode was "No way am I going to step into a ring and get my ass kicked." Fair enough.

If there is one thing I learned from my experience in Thailand with Tony and the No Reservations crew it's that making this show is in no way, shape, or form, an easy task. I went on this trip determined to show Tony and the entire crew that I wasn't just going to come along for the ride and play Samantha Brown for an entire week -- drinking cocktails and eating good food. I wanted to show Tony and the viewers, the beauty of Thailand and their national sport of Muay Thai, which has become a huge part of my life. And I wanted to show my appreciation for the opportunity they had given me by assisting the crew in anything they needed while also learning what it was really like to be part of this show, even if just for a week.

Every single day was a sweat soaked experience of countless hours of scouting locations in the blistering Bangkok heat, watching Zach and Todd shoot hours upon hours of b-roll footage-most of which we will never see - helping them lug around what has to be literally pounds of equipment, and watching Tony do take upon take of a food scene in order to get the perfect shot of food porn. I watched as Tony and crew waded knee-deep in mud in order to get the freshest cockles for a planned food scene in the middle of the Gulf of Thailand, which never happened due to inclement weather that nearly capsized our boats.

Everyday would start early and end incredibly late, leaving us all completely exhausted and hungry (for a travel show that revolves around food, I was surprised by how little we actually ate). I realized how hard it must be for everyone on the crew to take these lightening fast trips to the other side of the world and produce an entire show in a matter of days, hoping and praying that everything goes according to plan, even though more often than not, it doesn't.

And Tony, man you have to respect Tony.

The producers more often than not rotate after every shoot so that the person that just got done shooting in, let's say...Korea, doesn't have to shoot in India the following week. But Tony, well he's "The Dude," he's the star of the show, he has to be on the next flight to the next location no matter how exhausted he is from the previous shoot. He can't take a break after being humiliatingly man handled by an Uzbek masseuse or getting nearly crushed by an out-of-control ATV. He can't complain when being offered warthog rectum in the Serengeti or fermented shark's fin in Iceland. He has to pull himself up and do it for the fans, and man does he do it with grace.

At the end of my trip to Thailand with Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, I came to realize how much Tony and the entire Zero Point Zero Production's crew that are behind this beloved show we know affectionately as "No Res," bust their ass to make sure they keep us happy. So...during Round 5 of the fight the crew and I had planned for the Thailand shoot, I realized that the only way I could really show how much we "No Res" fans really love the show, was to get up and fight this Thai champion, even if it meant getting my ass kicked on national television.

It was my way of showing them my appreciation of this opportunity they had given me. I was suffering, sucking in hot Bangkok air while going kick for kick, elbow for elbow, and toe to toe with a Thai champ. But everytime I felt like passing out I would remember that Tony and the crew had kept their promise...we were indeed making television together. And seeing how Tony has been shot with a taser, punched in the face by Miguel Cotto, and crushed by "lucha libres" in Mexico City for the sake of good television, this was the least I could do for the big guy. It won't be you getting your ass kicked in the ring today Tony...it will be me, and I will do so gladly.

If someone was to ask you if you preferred to see your steak wheeled out to you in a bizarre cart that is a cross between an aluminum mini-zeppelin and a tiny coffin, or, if you preferred to have it come out on a plate with veggies and a starch neatly spaced as per normal, which one would you choose?

Some (most) would think this a very bizarre query. But let's just say it is now an important query for me...and all it took was one night at House of Prime Rib in (kinda) sunny San Francisco to forever alter my ideals on proper steak service.

And this is a good thing.

Now for the digression (you saw this coming, right?)...

As we travel, we begin to get a different take on what is "right" or "wrong" when it comes to proper food service. We have done entire shows where every restaurant we go to has no refrigeration. Where there is not a recognizable gas range in sight. And where the best service is waiting patiently in line for a newspaper-wrapped sandwich made with meat that has been sitting out in the sun all day. It gives a whole new spin on the term "open kitchen." Sometimes the only way to tell if a meal is truly exceptional is if you can get it on the street and you survive the battle. It's a different yardstick out there in the world as opposed to the Zagat-rating jungle (which drives me f***** crazy, by the way) we weed ourselves through time and time again to find that perfect "experience" here in the States.

Don't get me wrong...I love a perfectly executed meal at a US (read: traditional) style restaurant. Each course properly spaced by the server, cooked on-point by the kitchen and matched with a nice glass of wine. This is our standard. This is how we judge things.

And on that note, it is a rare thing to be surprised in your own backyard.

I am no restaurant reviewer, but here is what I would lay down if someone asked me about one of my favorite meals while in the shadow of the Bay Bridge.

Why This May Be My Favorite Restaurant Ever
By J. Andrukanis
Rating: 5/4 Stars

"From the minute you walk into this place, it is a battleground. You can feel the energy around you as flashbulbs pop and muted voices singing Happy Birthday rattle through the overall cacophony of the place. Servers weave through the dining room floor with an inherent grace, ducking around giant steel carts that look like they are from the early days of the Industrial Revolution being wheeled slowly through the main seating area by persons in chef coats wearing red neckerchiefs. The lighting is low but inviting and there is always a wait. While doing so, you can hear shakers of martinis being made at the sizeable bar to your left, and this rhythm of 80 proof spirits and ice will eventually drive you to down a few of them while relaxing in the lounge for your table to be ready. Speaking of the lounge/bar...unlike other restaurants, there is no dining whatsoever in this area. It is simply a well-appointed corral where expectant diners stare eagerly at the main dining room watching for other diners to stand and head for the door, hoping that it was your table that just finished and it is your turn to sit. When you finally cozy up to your table, a menu the size of the New York Times is handed to you by the hostess. Although daunting at first, the minute you open the massive document, you begin to see even more of the genius of this place. There are literally less than 10 choices, all emblazoned on the paper in fine gothic print. You focus on them, eyes a little shaky from the aforementioned martinis, and realize it is only a formality to look at the list of items for sale here...you just have to decide how hungry you are, and let your server know. I choose the namesake cut of beef. My server takes away the menu, and smiles at me as if she knows that the ride is about to begin. The next 45 minutes are a blur of amazing service and spectacular food cut right from the bone less than 36 inches from my smiling face. I am speechless..."

OK - Any real restaurant reviewer would take at least a few more paragraphs to describe how it may very well have been the best steak of their life, and how the horseradish could strip paint off a brand new Mustang, but I am not one, so I will spare you the extended hyperbole.

Let's just say that some things are true for me by default-

1.) Seafood tends to taste better with sand between your toes.

2.) If there is a line wrapping around the block at a potential eating-place, it is probably a good choice to grab a spot and wait (caveat - this rule does not apply to any fast food chains at lunchtime).

3.) Prime Rib hacked off the bone tableside by a chef wielding a massive carving knife who pushes a giant galvanized wheel-cart full of beef and creamed spinach around a restaurant all night is about as close to a 30/30/30 Zagat Rating as I could hope for.

Yikes...re-reading that last rule, I just realized how much I must like steak.

JA

I was really surprised to learn that Tony invites me to accompany him on Rust Belt journey. "What for?" I started thinking, "there is no need for me to arrange anything there." Then Chris Collins, the show's executive producer explained, "This time you will not have to do anything. Just relax." "OK, why not?" I thought, but then I remembered that "there is never free lunch." It is always good to feel again like a part of Dream Team, as I jokingly call ZPZ Creative Associates, with whom I was involved in making three Travel Channel shows and one Food Network program over the last eight years.

First stop: Baltimore, an interesting city with aquarium and harbor right in front of our hotel. First real character: rank-and-file investigative officer at local police homicide department, Jay Landsman. When he started to spell out his professional stories on counterfeiting and drug trafficking operations, the way he pronounced the name of his hometown -- "Balma" -- added spice. I felt like I was reading again my favorite book by Mario Puzo, Godfather. Tony explained that Jay was depicted in many successful TV shows -- The Wire, Corner and Homicide. "Well, this is real America," was my first thought during that informal bite at great food outlet Pit Beef.

Next stop: Detroit. We hardly had time off after exhausting travel and shoot but my dream plan was to ATTEND LOCAL HOCKEY TEAM Detroit Red Wings' game at its home arena with great Russian player Datsuk. No tickets, sold out!!! Bad luck -- but even economic crisis does not prevent Americans from watching the game live on TV, so I watched it in local bar with my local friends Diane and Stephen, which happened to be even more fun with people reacting to Red Wings' 6-1 victory vs. Dallas team.

The biggest distraction for me personally was to "visit or not to visit" local casino right next to our breakfast room at the hotel. On our last night there Tony asked, "will you play Spanish 21 with me?" I thought for a moment. "Yes, why not," I said, though I never had luck before in any of casinos around the world. The result -- Tony was $200 down while I made $125. So next day I treated him to real Buffalo wings to celebrate my first victory!!!

Buffalo: Definitely the climax of the trip. Nelson Starr, a local musician, was our key host, an amazing individual, a bohemian, Paul McCartney-looking man in his early 30s. The moment we loaded our gear into local van, the driver gave me a gift from Nelson, a Moskovskaya vodka bottle -- with the inscription, "Do not let Zamir touch it." Later, on the way to the hotel Mansion, I thought, "WOW. Home away from home. My kind of place" -- and it was a real mansion, where "ghosts" allegedly appear during the night. I did not meet any, though ...

Little did I know that Tony had two surprises for me at the end of the trip. The first was giving me a free ride at 90 miles/hour on snowmobile as I swore like hell at not having a chance to enjoy the views of beautiful Lake Erie or fog coming from Niagara Falls! Luckily for Tony he did not hear a damn curse at that speed. The second surprise came late in the evening as Nelson and his band performed live at local club and I saw a mini-crowd chanting "Zamir, we love you!" And asking me to sign an autograph on their jeans, crutches, etc., after the show! For first time did I realize that apart from Tony's huge fan clubs around U.S., I had fans here as well. Well, the trip was definitely worth it!

"Show must go on," and we are back into the van to return to NYC ... Eight days trip passed like a flash with great impressions and my new notion of real of America --"the further away you travel from NYC, the warmer and nicer people are!"

It's a foggy morning in the near-perfect village situated by the sea in central Vietnam known as Hoi An. I am standing in a rice paddy and my New Balance sneakers are covered in brown clay from the saturated ground. Staring off into the distance, I notice Todd shooting b-roll.

My socks are wet, but I don't notice because of the view - it is one of complete calm, with green growth, grey water and paddies stretching out for what seems like miles in each direction ...an open playing field of agriculture at its most base. In my view, there are three women in conical hats slowly pulling at the stalks with the country's most prevalent foodstuff at their ends - it is a delicate process, compounded to almost an art as the women's hands move with uncanny deftness, repeating the same process that most likely has been done by them for many years.

In the center of an adjacent paddy there is a water buffalo pulling a plow with a farmer on its back. The beast is looking downright joyous, dragging its heavy load behind it, taking time to lower its snout into the gray water below and then splashing to the left and right while plodding down a line of rice grass. I am nearly mesmerized by this, as the massive animal reaches the end of a line of green, it turns completely around and begins the process on another endless string of rice plants.

I am surrounded by tradition - The tradition of the rice pickers in the field, the tradition of the farmer riding his plow and the tradition of the buffalo doing its daily walk. This is all common ground for them ...I feel almost as if I am invading their space.

I turn to Todd, who has his face buried in the sunshade of the viewfinder, most likely in a shooter's paradise of amazing footage to be had all around him. I ask, "Did you get that water buffalo?"

He looks up from his viewfinder, "Yes ...a few different sizes. You see anything else that we should get out here?"

I do a 360-degree scan of the area, and my eyes set on another, yet another water buffalo moving slowly up the narrow shelf of clay. Todd and I chose to wander out, on to shoot the paddies. The strip we are standing on is about 3 feet wide and stands nearly a foot above the flooded plane where the rice is planted.

After a quick calculation, it becomes very clear that either Todd or I, or the approaching water buffalo, is going to have to get off this shelf and into the half submerged paddies for this to work out. And she is not looking like she will be getting out of our way - I feel like I am playing chicken with a massive, grayish-black, horned, and motivated beast ...but in super slow motion.

I then notice the two calves behind her.

Now this is interesting. A mom and two calves, walking towards Todd and I, with nowhere to go but through or around us. It is basic knowledge that in the wild (or elsewhere) it is never a good idea to upset a mother when her offspring are nearby - it is just bad business, and even the most docile and cute animals tend to get nasty when you mess with the kids. Naturally that rule is compounded when the mother in question has horns spanning nearly 6 feet, and the neck muscles are capable of tossing my 190-pound frame into the air like a wet tissue wearing a backpack.

I tell Todd, "Well, here is another one of them heading right for us. And she's got her kids with her."

Todd, looks up, looks at me and then starts filming our approaching guests. She is not paying any attention to us, and walks up the narrow stretch of land toward our position. Twenty-five feet ...20 ...15 ...10 ... and then, the mother heads off the clay shelf into the paddies to our left, and the calves branch off to paddies on our right.

Now Todd and I are standing right between a mother and her children.

Yikes.

At that moment she notices us - and her body language shifts immediately from the trundling mass of a docile farm animal to a different sort altogether. She stands upright and completely still, looks directly at me and starts breathing in a not-so-friendly fashion. It sounds like half-stifled coughs, but with a lung capacity of, well, a buffalo, behind the brays. Her eyes do not look kind, to say the least.

I hear Todd say, "I don't think she likes you.

"I get that feeling too."

I pull my camera out of my pocket and start firing off some still photos, "Hey Todd, just so you know, I am documenting this in case we both get gored by a water buffalo. Hopefully they will find the camera."

I realize that this is not a funny comment and put the camera away. She is still breathing like a goddamn freight train and staring me right in the eye.

"Not sure what the protocol is for handling this sort of thing. Stand still and hope for the best, huh?"

And as the last word falls out of my mouth, she forgets about me and starts giddily splashing away to rejoin her calves. Just like that.

I remember to breathe in ...and ask Todd, "Did you get that?"

Todd nods his head.

JA

1. INTERIOR MOHAMMED'S EATERY, COLOMBO, SRI LANKA - DAY

One of the many eating houses in the Pettah, Colombo's main marketplace, provides the backdrop for mine and Tony's first Sri Lankan meal, a hearty breakfast of String Hoppers (steamed rice noodles); paripoo, or red lentils stewed in coconut milk; pol sambol, a spicy condiment of fresh shredded coconut laced with lime juice, salt and chili powder; chili fish curry, potato curry and sour fish curry. We have just slogged our way through the crowded and chaotic central fish market around the corner, and I, having prudently bypassed the lavish breakfast buffet at the stately Galle Face Hotel, our home away from home this week, have worked up a healthy appetite that neither the oppressive heat nor the condensed-milk tea we're sipping can kill.

Roll Cameras

In an instant the table is covered with a colorful, edible tapestry-the yellow-tinged potato curry, shaded with turmeric, contrasting against fiery red fish gravy and orange coconut sambol, black sour fish and white rice noodle nests. I waste no time, quickly using up all real estate on my plate, but when I peek at Tony's, it's looking pretty zen. As a fan of the show, my mind's eye flashes back to an episode like Montreal, where Bourdain was practically mainlining foie gras as the mischievous chef sent him a flurry of rich main courses, which Tony scooped down his pie-hole like a trooper. Was this the same Tony Bourdain, Mouth Almighty, The Walking Stomach, King of Street Food? Or did they cheat on TV, and just make it look like he eats a lot? That's certainly not what the producers told me when I signed on. Worse yet: What if he doesn't like the food? I considered it an honor and a pleasure to introduce a serious eater like Tony to the cuisine of my homeland, and if he just didn't dig it, I would have felt really bad. These thoughts were the subtext as we spoke casually about the meal for the cameras. Afterwards I asked him:

SKIZ

Tony, so how you feeling, man? Everything cool?

TONY

Yeah, man. But I've had this thing since before we left New York.

Some kind of bug or something.

SKIZ

Oh, no. For real?

TONY

Of course, it didn't help that the lady in the next seat was coughing all over me all the way from Kuwait City. But yeah, I can't seem to keep anything down.

It suddenly dawned on me that even a job as perfect as his-to travel the world and sample her exotic delights-had its own pitfalls. What if you were hot and jetlagged and afflicted with a serious head cold that impeded your olfactory senses? What if you were so sick you couldn't even keep any food down? What if you just didn't feel like eating and had to plow through three or four heavy meals in a day? Things to think about when you eat for a living. Nevertheless, this was a food and travel show, and with only six days of shooting, the show must go on.

Thankfully, it did, without a hitch. After Tony's stomach settled down, and we plied him with a few alcoholic beverages for good measure, the man I knew from the TV screen returned in fine form. Not only that, but he genuinely enjoyed each successive meal more than the one before it. In fact, I noticed that the whole crew-Producer Tom, Segment Producer Jared, and Jerry and Todd, the cameramen -- all loaded up on the Sri Lankan specialties every morning at the breakfast buffet, not to mention scarfing down all the food that Tony and I ate on camera, as well. And these guys can take the heat from all the chili-laden dishes, which I've never seen gringos handle so well. Of course, Tony gets extra points for making it through those first few meals, which probably went straight through him.

For more about the "No Reservations" Sri Lanka trip, check out my own blog at Riceandcurry.wordpress.com.

It is the night of our arrival in Manila, and usually on the day we arrive and before we begin principal photography, I spend my first few hours meeting with our fixer to discuss any changes or adjustments to our shooting schedule.

After that, I reach out to tomorrow's locations to touch base and remind them of the times that we are coming to film with them.

Finally, I head up to my hotel room and make sure the mini-fridge in my hotel room is functioning properly by testing the coldness of a beer before I go to sleep. It sometimes takes two beers to be certain, but up to this point I have not found a broken mini-fridge.

That is a normal arrival day.

My first night in the Philippines is not a normal arrival day.

It's nearing midnight, and I am riding in an ordinary looking white van through the hectic streets of Metro Manila. There are people everywhere I look, all doing their usual night time routine ...the city feels alive with energy, and it is all moving past me in a blur as I scan the storefronts of the many bodegas that line the crowded sidewalks. I am looking for something vital for our upcoming shoot days. Something that, quite frankly, we need badly seeing as the temperature here doesn't seem to ever go below eighty degrees and it's humid.

I am on a desperate mission to find a drugstore that is open at this late hour to buy some deodorant.

Yep ...that's right. Deodorant.

We (the crew) are in desperate need of toiletries, and I am trying to find the one item that quite possibly has changed the face of the modern world. I keep reminding myself it is a noble quest as we pass more and more closed drugstores. Reminding myself to keep my eye on the prize.

Why, you may ask, is there such an urgent need for this solo excursion into the streets of Manila at this time of night after nearly 20 hours of flying with so many other things to do before cameras go live tomorrow morning?

I will explain -

As any traveler knows, there are apt to be some hiccups in the great world of trains, planes, and automobiles. Mostly those hiccups take place on the planes ...not so much in the air, but the process of getting them in the air on time. Delays, cancellations and missed connections ...these things happen - and since the travel situation on this show is more akin to "planes, planes, and more planes" it is surprising that things do not go awry more often.

We hit a triple hiccup (delayed, cancelled, missed connection) on the way to the Philippines, and as to not bore you with the exact airport logistics, I will simply say that it was not our day at JFK. Certain things occurred at the airport that caused us to arrive in Manila 12 hours later than planned, and with only our carry-on luggage and three cameras.

No personal checked bags (Including toiletries, socks, underwear, outerwear).

No additional film equipment (Including many items that are vital for our shoot, items that are hard to replace while on the road).

And most disturbing, perhaps...

No way to tell when any of it would arrive (Including me figuring out how to purchase everything we may need to properly shoot this show. It's a long list without having to buy us all clothes for the week. So now it's a longer list).

Granted, we always carry-on the cameras and sound kits for our shoots, so we have what we need to start filming the episode tomorrow morning, but no matter how much you rub a Sony-V1U on your underarm you wont get all day wetness protection coupled with a pleasant scent.

You will most likely get a rash, almost definitely have someone give you a nervous glance and quite possibly be arrested.

It is close to midnight when I find some, and I feel about ten pounds lighter as I hop back into the van to head back to the hotel to start my usual arrival day work.

--

Our missing bags arrive at the hotel the next morning, and I end up leaving five travel sticks of varying brands of deodorant behind on my hotel sink when I leave Manila at the end of the shoot.

The housekeeping crew must have thought I was a little strange.

JA

I'm watching Tony Bourdain eat roadkill.

For the last hour I've been cutting a scene of Tony at a Chicago restaurant that specializes in molecular gastronomy of a rather unusual variety. Try to imagine Ferran Adria's El Bulli crossed with a novelty gift shop that sells chocolates in the shape of dog turds and you'll get some idea of the place. He's just had a big bite of a dish called "Roadkill," actually it's a very delicately prepared dish of shredded duck confit with a splattering of a beet puree and a toasted rosemary infused marshmallow that is meant to resemble entrails, or maggots, or ...well, you get the idea

It's a fun scene and the kind that usually cuts itself. Tony is clearly digging this kooky molecular gastro- concoction. At one point he says kiddingly, "I may have eaten roadkill before." But is he really kidding? One of the aspects of this show that consistently amazes me is Tony's willingness to eat whatever his hosts are generous enough to offer. Anything and everything.

Anyone who has been even a casual viewer of this series has likely seen Mr. Bourdain ingest fermented meats, fermented meat liquor, raw poultry, animal genitalia (lots of animal genitalia), Hawaiian luau steam-table fare, various and sundry livestock organs and, of course, unwashed, semi-cooked warthog rectum, and that's just scratching the surface. In other words, he doesn't just talk the talk he walks the walk and he keeps on walking the walk.

A lot of travel show hosts may "eat for the camera," meaning a few bites just enough to get the scene done, but when you see Tony eating a meal, he's actually eating that meal. Whether it's a 15-course tasting menu or a pound of grilled hyenna spleen, he is there. And of course, it's worth noting that it's not just the meals you see in the show that he eats, there's also the meals that wind up in the International versions of the show and the meals that don't even make it out of the edit room. What you see isn't what he's done . . .it's merely a portion of what's he's done. At times it's a burden, we should all be so lucky to have, at other times it borders on literally putting his health (at least his gastro-intestinal health) in jeopardy. It lends another layer of authenticity to the show and is a testament to his dedication.

But it doesn't just stop at food. In addition to keeping it real with his meals, TB also does his own stunts. Perhaps, he would rather not, but through the magic of semi-planned circumstance, what you see is what he got. Getting rolled over twice by an ATV in New Zealand -- no stunt-double there. Descending hundreds of feet into a wet, stinking, treacherous, bat shit-filled cave in Jamaica - that was really him. And sitting through hour upon hour of mind-numbing conversations about crop cycles with German-Namibian farmers - all Tony.

So just remember, next time you're really enjoying an episode of "No Reservations," or if you're not enjoying it, or if you're pissed because you're watching the same repeat from season 2 that's been airing for the one millionth time, just remember what Tony does. For your entertainment alone Tony risks it; for your entertainment alone Tony does it; and for your entertainment alone. . . Tony eats it.

Tony's driving our big black Caddy, skimming the Ike, just south of downtown Chicago. I'm lying down in the backseat, deliberately in hiding. Trying to act like it's cool. Like it's totally not uncomfortable. In every sense of the word. You must know, faithful Bourdain Crew Blog Reader, how Tony doesn't like doing the walking shots? Well apparently he doesn't like repetitious driving shots either, as evidenced by his increasingly road-rage-alicious maneuvers. Oh, and the occasional explosive swearing was a little hint, too. As I'm trying to multitask on my new iPhone, navigating prone and linked with the crew van, I'm so glad they're yukking it up over there. I can hear Chris, Diane, Alex, Kira, Erik and even my brother William, whom I recruited to drive, practically singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall." By the way, Chris, when you told me to duck down to get out of the shot and I dropped down to the right, I heard you say, "I wish she would have leaned the other way!" Ha. Ha. Meanwhile I desperately cling to the fine leather upholstery, trying not to get flung hard to the floor. At least I'm grateful for all the time I spent on a Deadliest Catch-esque fishing boat this summer curing myself of motion sickness.

And at that moment my skin felt electrified. It was a position you would have killed to be in - as weird as it was. I didn't want to be anywhere else. Doing anything else. With anyone else. Thanks to Tony, Chris, Lydia, Diane and the entire "No Reservations" crew - my dear, extended, endlessly entertaining dysfunctional family - I have been allowed to live an adventurous food life far beyond what I deserve.

Three weeks ago, as of this blogging, we wrapped the long-awaited Chicago shoot. Tony mentions it briefly in his recent blog post about the upcoming Season 5. He writes, "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.'" By the way, that film is beyond noir - the story is black-hole black - and to play amateur forensic psychologist, wow an insight into Tony's psyche, I think - but incredibly beautiful to watch.

I again worked as a fixer. I hold the distinction of being the first ever "No Reservations" fixer. Remember me in the meat market scene in Paris? And what is a fixer, you ask? In the job description it's a local translator and guide. For Tony fans, you'll understand when I say I was the Zamir.

So this summer I was cooking away for the Alaskan fishing boat and lodge and I got the call from Lydia. Chicago's on. In a month. And to paraphrase another film - film nerds that we are - it was an offer I could not refuse. Chicago is my hometown, and I have been waiting for nearly four years for the show to come to my town. Yes, of course we went to Hot Doug's, home to the infamous, once-illegal foie gras hot dog and duck-fat-fried fries - still served Fridays and Saturdays only.

And yes, we had pizza, but probably not anywhere you would think. We went to my beloved Burt's in the occasionally Twin Peaks-ish suburb of Morton Grove. The inimitable Burt and his gorgeous caramelized crust were featured on the cover of Saveur's Chicago issue last year.

But no beef. Yes, fellow Chicagoans, you heard me. No Italian beef. Why? Because as you know, we have an embarrassment of food riches. And we did the Mother-in-Law instead. You've never had the South Side specialty of a Chicago-style tamale smothered in chili, garnished with onions and sport peppers, wrapped in a warm poppy-seed bun? Well ya see, there's more to Chicago than just dogs, pizza and beef.

But we did have beef. And as my hair stylist Daniel dubbed them, Beef Daddies: Tony and Very Special Guest, Eric Ripert. I found myself with Tony and Eric (Freakin') Ripert at L20 nestled into our own private tatami room. I fully expect to be cut out of that scene, like the end person in a wedding party pic.

And speaking of beef, I called it at the Wagyu. L20's Chef/Partner Laurent Gras, an old friend of both Tony and Eric's, even had the audacity to send out the muzzle-printed certificate of authenticity. I mean come on now, Laurent - did you really need to flop that out? It was more than enough that each bite of that beef was like the crispy charred bit of fat that you steal off a steak even when it's too hot because it's that good. Every single bite of that entire deathbed-memorable meal was all that good. But I could only take two bites of the Wagyu- one wocka-wocka food porn one for the camera and the other one purely for my own gratuitous pleasure. As for the rest, when our kimono-clad server came to take our plates, I asked her to take mine over to producers Alex and Diane in the tatami room next door. Camerapeople Kira and Erik would have to wait until our conversation wandered into Not Safe For the New York Food Media Mafia territory and Tony told them point blank, "Don't shoot this." Poor Exec Producer Chris was shooting in the kitchen, Steak Outta Luck.

At the end of the night I drove the Caddy home. Tony slurred, "How is it that you're in better shape than we are?" Silly boy. Raiders of the Lost Ark? The shot glass scene? I switched from the endless rare, vintage bottles of sake to H20 early in the night.

With the Beef Daddies comfortably slumped in their seats, I knew again, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

I have been to DC before, but never like this.

In the past, I have spent countless hours wandering the National Mall, hitting up the Smithsonian Institute's cadre of museums, taking in precious moments at the Reflecting Pool (why do Forest and Jenny always come to mind?) sandwiched between the Lincoln and Washington Memorials, gazing at the sheer sobering geometrics of Arlington National Cemetery, and so much more to list.

My previous trips seemed to happen in the fall or winter, and adding to the visual effect of all those bright white tomes to our country's past was a brisk or downright frigid breeze. This has cemented that whole "George Washington crossing the frozen Delaware River" image burned into my brain during all those valuable middle school history classes.

**In reference to the above comment (and in defense of the prowess of my middle school teachers) I know that George's crossing of the Delaware occurred during the Revolutionary War, which was before DC was even founded, but still that painting sums up the whole place for me for some reason. Maybe it's just me. **

To the point - When I was there with Tony and the crew shooting the show, it wasn't winter. As a matter of fact, it was so far from winter that for moments I wondered if winter had retired from the team. I forgot what snow was or how it was made (plummeting cloud pieces from the stratosphere?). It was hard to comprehend how humanity survived in such a hellish place. Getting hit by a blast of air conditioning could cause shock to set in. I would enter buildings and immediately look for a place Tony and the crew could lie down and elevate their legs above their heads - just in case.

I understand now why they never painted George in the summertime. He wore shorts and a tank top. That would have looked ridiculous in the history books …especially with that hat.

Not to overstate the obvious (too late) - It was hot.

Like melting the matte box off a camera hot.

Like there is no way that anyone could survive in this heat hot.

Like if given the option to try to catch a large water balloon full of half-melted ice cubes in your mouth or to delicately sip a bottle of Evian you would choose the former hot.

And I have to carry this backpack with me everywhere.

You see - we are a small crew, and a hell of a team. We work well in tight spaces, kitchens, on boats, hanging from car windows …in pretty much all situations imaginable. The smallish nature of our crew leads to all of us taking on more tasks to keep our numbers low. The camera guys do all of their own lighting, grip work, and sound. The producer of the episode carries gear and helps shoot as well as making sure all the pieces of the puzzle come together properly.

And I have my backpack - full of the essentials for a shooting day on No Reservations. Here is a quick list of the first ten items a police officer randomly reaching in during a search would find in it.

1 - 9 volt batteries

2 - fake blood

3 - rubber mallet (don't ask)

4 - an impressive smattering of pills for all kinds of ailments (all legal, of course)

5 - Quik Clot (look it up online)

6 - a Blackberry that looks like someone threw it into a washing machine full of rocks

7 - back up tape stock

8 - bottles of water (day shooting)

9 - bottles of beer (night shooting)

10 - Trapper Keeper notebook (Transformers edition)

There is more in there, and the contents vary, but it all adds up to about 40 pounds of necessities for the crew strapped to my back. When combined with the oppressive heat of DC, my backpack felt as if I was carrying a space heater with me during our shoot days. I actually would color coordinate my clothing based on the shirts matching the pants after they were soaked through.

A major part of my job is making the first contact with our guests on the show. I walk up, shake hands, and introduce them to Tony and the rest of the crew. I felt self conscious about walking up to them looking as if I just ran a marathon, but the locals didn't even seem to notice …it was like they just understood that summer in DC is hot - and there is nothing you can do about it.

Two showers a day worked for me as a start.

-JA

I have made thirty-something episodes with Anthony Bourdain. Needless to say, our crew has spent a lot of time over the last four years getting lost in the world together.

Mostly my producing job is to schedule a good show and to gently encourage Tony to see the brighter sides of really horrifically BAD situations....scenes gone wrong...situations you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy-- like the, "Birth of the Nacho" scene, in the Mexico show (lets just say it involved canned olives, some sort of gelatinous Cheese Whiz and eventually a nacho related injury); and on a darker note, being in the wrong place at the wrong time...episodes like Beirut...

After five seasons of ABNR I've learned to TRY and avoid mistakes as such. And if there is one type of show I know I can count on, it's an ITALY show. I can always be sure, if we are going ANYWHERE IN ITALY, and eating ANYTHING ITALIAN, Tony is going to be excited about it.

In fact we could be holed up at an Autogrill gas station 1,000 miles from a decent hotel and Tony would still have a constant flow of golden sound bites flowing from his mouth. The entire crew could be deep in the collective throes of a zombie-like epileptic seizure and Tony would still make a damn good show out of it. He'd make the BEST show out of it. In post he'd say..."Ok, guys, it's not the show we set out to make, but throw in a little Dario Argento music and go in close on the Tagliatelle!"

So, when the mother ship calls and says, "fly to VENICE"....I'm feeling like the luckiest producer on Earth.

For the Venice show Tony had instructed the crew to catch up on a few of the classics, like, Don't Look Now and The Comfort of Strangers, films which evoke an unseen side of Venice, a darker side. As a producer, it's always a blast to emulate the narrative or visual style of a director or artistic work. So, I thought "great ...let's rent that Steadicam this time! Get out those 12k lights! I need dollies, cranes, generators, trailers, CRAFT SERVICE for chrissakes! LET'S MAKE A FILM!" And then there is reality. The reality of making art from what we have, which isn't much, but is actually quite a lot.

It's midnight, we've been shooting for 12 hours, Tony had two large meals today and now I've got to inspire the crew to figure out how we can shoot a bunch of night stuff with two flashlights, a luggage cart, and a tired host. Plus, as usual, I've storyboarded 15 shots and I have MAYBE 1 hour to pull this off. Cart assembled, Zach hops on with the camera, Nari, who equals half the size of the luggage cart, volunteers her Sherpa skills and Todd rigs lights to historic Palazzos with masking tape. For the next 45 minutes we race through the eerie back alleys of Venice like a student film on speed.

The footage turns out beautiful. It's always in back alleys, somewhere lost in the universe, where you realize how wonderful it is to collaborate with a great team.

As the newbie on the crew I knew that it would take some time to gain Anthony Bourdain's respect. No Reservations is entering it's fifth season and the man has met and worked with countless different people … and like every job that involves being accepted as "part of the team" (and no, there is no I in team) you have to earn your medal of honor, you have to gain your place in the ranks.

After my first shoot in Chicago, which had gone very well thanks to the guiding hand of Chris - my boss and long time Tony friend - Mexico was next. My second shoot, with veterans who between them have racked up well over 40 episodes. I was going to have to step it up somehow. I had heard through the grapevine that it may take a while for Tony to look me in the eye. This was true, but it did eventually happen ... So how, and when, would I make it to the next level? Beyond eye contact to perhaps a conversation or even a shared joke or two…? What would I have to do to gain his respect, and be able to call myself a member of the No Reservations crew and really mean it?

It happened on a dark street corner in Puebla around 8pm local time … After a long day shooting with our friend Carlos and several of his family members, we all stopped for tacos at his favorite roadside stand. There were several different choices of meat, including tripe, tongue and sausage. Everyone it seemed was waiting for the chorizo… As 12 hungry people clamored for the same taco varietal, it happened. She said it softly at first and I thought no one had heard her. "Ojo?" That's eye right? She took the tongs and sure enough an eye appeared from the boiling pot of meat. I was starving… I saw my opportunity and took it. From my place at the back of the hungry group I fearlessly raised my hand. "Uno de ojo por favor".

And that was the moment I gained Bourdain's respect. From my left I heard him: "Wow, that's really impressive…" And then as the rest of the crew slapped me on the back and told me how impressed THEY were with my order another comment: "Somebody raised you right". Puffed up with pride, I hungrily ate my eye taco (the only one of our crew to do so I might add) knowing that something had changed and that hopefully Tony (as I now like to call him) and I would go on to have a beautiful working relationship … Thanks Mum and Dad for raising me right. And if you ever have the option - go for the eye. It was quite delicious.

I first met Tony Bourdain in the old Siberia, a wonderfully disgusting dive bar which at the time was buried near the entrance to the 1 and 9 subway station at the 50th and Broadway. It was sometime in late 2000, and I had just been hired as a reporter for the New York Post's Page Six gossip column, primarily because I was the kind of guy who happily drank up everything that New York nightlife had to offer, from bending elbows with my fellow degenerates at foul-smelling dive bars to awkwardly hitting on Eastern European models at all those overpriced bottle service swilleries that were popping up all over town. Tony was already a semi-famous author, thanks to Kitchen Confidential, but he shared my boozy bloodlust for Siberia's nocturnal allure, as well as an appreciation for a decent jukebox that played the Dead Boys. Now that he's a full-on TV star who spends most of the year traveling to exotic locales, I rarely run into him anymore (the fact that Siberia closed has cut down on our hang time considerably) so I was pleasantly surprised when one of his producers emailed me to ask if I wanted to be on No Reservations to talk about, you know, food and travel and stuff.

Sure, why not? I hadn't seen Bourdain in eons and a free, 14-course meal at a fancy place like WD-50 was a no-brainer. No Reservations was even good enough to loan me a video camera to take on my already-scheduled trip to New Orleans, which I somehow managed not to lose during epic eating and drinking binges around the French Quarter. By the way, cooks in New Orleans idolize Bourdain. Whenever I was filming in a restaurant and explained that I was shooting for his show, I was ushered into the kitchen, where the cook would invariably stuff some morsel of fried food in my mouth. At Guy's Po Boys on Magazine street, I choked down a foot and a half of delicious sandwich, so insistent was the guy making them that I try every kind of po boy he had. I felt like a human woodchipper being fed log after log until the machine fell apart. Or a foie gras goose whose stomach was being pumped until it burst. But hey, I'm a man of large appetites, and they all tasted pretty damn good.

So it was with clogged colon and wounded liver that I returned to NYC after four days in NoLa. I was the first to arrive for the dinner at WD-50 the afternoon after I got back. Tony immediately offered me a beer, which definitely helped matters. Then my old friend Amy Sacco turned up. Next it was former Queer Eye guy Ted Allen (who, incidentally, was wearing the exact same black leather Converse Jack Purcells that I was), and finally came the New Yorker's Bill Buford, whose books Heat and Among the Thugs are both amazing. At first I was pretty quiet, but by about the fifth wine course I was giving shout-outs to the comfort food of my Pennsylvania youth, namely my mom's Shake and Bake pork chops drenched in A1 sauce and her famous brussel sprouts, bacon bits and mayonnaise mash-up. Yes, the good old days. While I was intrigued and sometimes even thrilled by chef Wylie Dufrene's experimental cuisine (I distinctly remember enjoying what appeared to be Corn Pops filled with Eggs Benedict), I'm basically a comfort food freak. Give me some ribs, barbecued chicken, a good steak, some fresh soft shell crabs, and I'm a happy dude. Still it was great to raise a glass (or eleven) with Bourdain and co., and the driver of the Town Car hired by the Travel Channel was kind enough to drop me off at my next destination (a ventriloquists convention in Atlantic City, if you must know.)

So Tony, if you need a wingman the next time you eat your way through Spain, gimme a holler and I'm on a plane. I mean it. No, seriously, call me. Are you calling yet?

He moved through the office to another impromptu meeting with other producers and editors. They were discussing the Labor Day show, a barbecue-tastic, beef-topia in Connecticut the next day. Oh, how I wished to be there among the smells, the pool, the friendly sun. I secretly imagined a petting zoo, rounds of doing the Hokey-Pokey, a performance by the Cramps, and trust falls. And rainbows, made of cake.

As I approached Tom to tell him how much I'd enjoyed my sandwich, I overheard Tony. "We need a Ukulele, and Hawaiian Shirts. Say Adam, you're about the coolest guy ever, do you possess these items?"

Well, it was something like that. It came up that I play the uke (I play depression era folk music) and that I have a small collection of genuine, 70's polyester Hawaiian shirts (I went to high school on Maui). And just like my ex-best friend's honeymoon, I'd snuck my ass onto another trip.

You know that last scene in Boogie Nights, when the characters have gone through hell or worse and they're all back together, a big family, forgetting the challenges and digging the unity at the pool with the grill flaming? Well, replace the smut with a lot of equally talented people organizing over a dozen miniature businesses a year (every episode really is a little company). This shoot was a celebration of all those fully mind-destroying, relatively Olympian feats that shows can turn often out to be (bear in mind that Big-Tony B is on ALL of them). It all works because everybody is good at what they do and everybody loves it. Well, one guy didn't like it. Tony made us eat him in a lemon-wine sauce ...

We all helped with food, setting up, holding reflectors, building up mics and jumping in the bouncy castle. I think Nari was in charge of drinking. I went to the workshop to saw and hammer some tracking targets together for a retrospective shot for the "Tony's many eccentric acquaintances" segment. Then we grilled. After Tony cooked about infinity-pounds of meat for an hour, he deserved a damn break. Naturally, he turned to the nearest person and handed me the spatula (I was closer than the table). Of course, though, he was a gent. I learned that when the burger puffs a little, it's done. Also, I learned that I come from a family that slightly overcooks food. And at the very, very end, I learned you can give a man a burger or you can teach him to grill. That, my friends, is a trust fall worth two in the bush.

"You can't shoot THAT!" says our government minder.

"What?" I ask, through my phone.

With a dirty-toothed smile, "That, um, food cart. There are many places that are much nicer. Wouldn't you rather shoot there?"

"Where?" I ask with a pleasant, but deeply evil smile on my face, knowing this game like the back of my hand.

"Um" the minder sputters "anywhere but HERE. I was told..."

My mind starts wandering to other essentials as I look at the obviously fearful look on my poor, ABNR-virgin, cameraman's face. I squint, look bored, half smile and reassuredly, but ever-so-slightly, nod. Wink to Tracey. Street scene on. Ba-bang.

"You know ___________, I need to go to the toilet. Can you help me?" I ask earnestly while doing the "little-boy-leg-shifting-pee-pee-dance."

"Yes, right this way. I can help you," he says with the authority of a bureaucrat who actually means what he is saying, but doesn't get to say it very often.

We're off. Down an alley. Thru a gate. Large door. Man in uniform. Arabic spoken. Nods all around. Down a hall. Thru another door. Smell of excrement. Bingo. Government minder waits outside.

Now remember, I still have a phone stuck to my face. It's been there for days...l.i.t.e.r.a.l.l.y. Thank god for international cells. Tracey and I came to Egypt 3 days early to scout. Crew coming in on different days from different locations. Potential logistical hell. The pollution here makes Athens or Mexico City feel like clean oases of Swiss modernity. The noise of Cairo is literally as loud as "being 10 feet from a freight train." I read that somewhere. No joke. Government bureaucrat hell. Permits. You have them, don't worry. Well, you might have them by next week. "Next week" I yell. "We're shooting tomorrow." Well, you can shoot the pyramids. Ummm, actually, no you can't shoot the pyramids. "Forget the pyramids, can we shoot in the streets of Cairo?" You can't shoot ANYthing on the street. We know of some nice restaurants you would LOVE to shoot in, though. The Hilton has a great "Middle Eastern-style" restaurant with dancing and traditional music. Very clean. Tourists go there. You'll feel safe. You will LOVE it! Ahhhhhhhhh!

So I'm on the phone with the network, with Tony, with our Executive Producers, with the Egyptian government, with the airline, with customs officers, with the US government, with my mom ("help!"). I keep switching calls to our "fixers" when the Arabic becomes, well, irreplaceable with English. But I have to transfer the call. I can't hand mine over ... cause it's stuck to my F***ING face!

Thank god our fixers have phones. So from within the stall, I text, "SHOOT the scene. Shoot the scene!" And then, I take my time. I pretend I'm going #2, which requires more time in a world without toilet seats or toilet paper.

Just another day on ABNR ...

It is easy to recall the day I learned that I would be one of the segment producers for "No Reservations, "I was ecstatic. What an amazing adventure! My imagination ran wild with the places we would travel, the people we'd meet, and the food ... Oh crap, the food. What was I going to do? How could I tell Anthony Bourdain, vegetarian loather, that his new segment producer had never eaten pork or any sort of red meat in her entire life? My conclusion, I couldn't. My food flaw was a serious offense and would have to be kept top-secret for three meals a day.

When I say I've never eaten red meat or pork, I mean never. From birth I have been mostly vegetarian - a little chicken here, a little fish there. My parents didn't cook meat so we didn't eat it. It was a challenging thing to hide, especially from someone like Tony. Throughout the Romania and Hawaii episodes I employed a number of maneuvers harkening back to childhood and my grandparents disdain for my eating habits. There was the chewing-and-spitting-sausage-into-the-napkin trick, the careful switching-the-plates-of-Spam, and even the under-the-table-ham-hand-off.

My main concern is not offending my host, which is why my failsafe has always been the stuff-yourself-silly-with-something. We had been prepping for our Spain show for about 6 weeks and we had a kick-ass show on our hands. Everything was perfect ... the locations, the menus, the chefs, the sidekicks, it was all there. "Spain," as Tony would say, "is triple X on the food porn." We scheduled nothing else, just loads of luscious meat. Meat, meat, meat and more meat. Granted, I may have never tasted half of what we researched, but I knew, theoretically, its importance to those carnivorous taste buds.

I fantasized how I would tell him. A scene from "Who's the Boss" where Tony is, well, Tony and I am Samantha. We would have just wrapped for the day, the crew scoffing down leftover plates of ham iberico. He notices that I haven't partaken of these piglet pieces of perfection. I look guiltily out from under my bangs. He gives me that Danza frown, "Samantaaaaa" and we burst into laughter, Tony wondering how a vegetarian could have infiltrated the ranks. I shrug smiling and eat a carrot stick. Cue the hugs and rolling credits.

Bourdain's hatred of vegetarians is no secret. I had read the interviews, seen the episodes and even heard it from the man himself. Maybe he would dress me in antlers and bow-hunt me in the next episode. Or worse, tie me to a chair in some dark, abandoned warehouse, with various cuts of meat laid out like the tools of a torture mastermind. Sausages, prosciuttos, and sirloins. Would he break me and use me as an example? String-up a meat-stuffed scarecrow to ward off future vegetarian segment producers?

It was time to get on that plane to Barcelona. I was going to come clean once and for all, no matter what the repercussions. As anticipated, I was surrounded by plate after plate of cured meat and not a vegetable in sight. Tables of ham iberico stretching like an endless pink fleshy super-highway. Tony, the crew and our hosts feasted on the bounty before them. Like admitting to an affair on Valentine's Day this was not the time for confessions. So I activated the failsafe. In this case it was sardines. I went through more fish than the feed truck at Seaworld. I ate them until I was safely out of ham's way. And that is how it went for 10 days in beautiful Spain. But this story isn't over, just to-be-continued. There will be other trips without fish or any other safety net I have used thus far. And as most of you can predict, it will now become mission number one to convert me. I guess it's all on the table now.

The Beginning:
Join Tony to film a show in Uruguay? How quickly could I say "yes"? The plan was for a February trip -- summer in Uruguay. A no-brainer! February rolls around, and here I am, winging my way to Montevideo with my itinerant brother and his entourage of four from "No Reservations". Oh yeah -- it seems I am viewed as part of "the talent," so I get to fly in business class with Tony. It's good to be the king! Arrival in Montevideo is slightly delayed by the local customs chap inviting us to his office in back to share with us the benefit of his knowledge and experience dealing with thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment. After an extra hour of pointless discussion and waiting, we are met by our local "fixers" Sofia and Cecilia, and our van driver, Anibal. Our hotel, the Victoria Plaza, is apparently the place to stay in Montevideo, and indeed we see limos pulling up with various foreign diplomat and zillionaire types. Interestingly, I learned pre-trip that this hotel is actually owned by Rev. Sun Myung Moon's Unification Church, which has made a number of substantial and secretive investments in Uruguay.

The Archives:
The ostensible reason I am along on this show is for "genealogical research," the "family connection" thing. As young children we always had thought that the French part of the family washed up on this side of the Atlantic during World War I. But one summer when we went over to France to clean out our deceased great-aunt's house, we discovered a trove of yellowed documents alluding to several generations of Bourdains in Uruguay and a nearby border town in Brazil. But other than a fleeting reference citing our great-great-grandfather Jean Bourdain as a "merchant" in Montevideo, we have never known why these people ended up in Uruguay, what they were doing, or why all remaining Bourdains on the continent returned to France after 1860. Who knows what these guys could have been getting into?

The Antique Car:
I am not sure what the premise is behind Tony picking me up in the wonderful antique car (which I am told is the very same one used in the "Miami Vice" movie). But driving around in this thing is fun ... What TV viewers don't see is Max and Sofia crammed down in the back seat for the entire weavy ride around old Montevideo. If they were height-challenged people, their forced embrace might be peculiarly romantic. But this looks more like a painful knee in groin/elbows in breasts story going on back there.

The Chivito:
The brief summary: Chivitos are a local favorite, a Uruguayan mega-sandwich equivalent of Wendy's "Grand Slam." It has everything you could imagine on it - sliced beef, bacon, ham, cheese, egg, mayonnaise, olives, pepper sauce on a big roll. Absurdly huge and impossible to eat neatly, it's about the best sandwich I've ever had. Tony and I nail these down. Plus beer. I enter into food coma.

Phone Call:
At a huge Brooklyn-size cattle ranch, an estancia, we are riding around in our host's Jeep in search of the ostrich-like "ñandu" when my cell phone rings. How is this possible? We are miles from any town or cell phone tower! I pick up... and hear the taped message: My kids' school is closed tomorrow due to snow. I'm soooooo happy to be here. Our hosts are fun and interesting people. There is nice wine here. I'm going to try armadillo. The sight of the armadillo trembling upsets several of us in attendance. I am personally very glad the assisting gauchos take the thing away to bring him into his next state of existence. And yes, it actually does taste like chicken!

Cabo Polonia:
This point of land at the angle of two long and unspoiled strips of beach is fantastically beautiful. It is an "ends of the Earth" type place where a 1960's/70's-style hippie commune has survived. It's gorgeous here and I enjoy our visit, but somehow I'm also finding this place a bit depressing. The blind bartender with his little penguin friend crapping on the floor near the bar ...this is getting kind of strange. Still -- I guess I'd rather see Cabo Polonia stay this way than be just another enclave for the rich.

Jose Ignacio:
The Punta del Este Resort area where the Rio de la Plata meets the Atlantic is a mix of communities. The most famous areas draw the Uruguayan and Argentine versions of the Rodeo Drive crowd, a super-glam caste of people, some replete with Botox and implants. Up the road from the "Punta," Jose Ignacio is a more mellow, low-key satellite community, with unpretentious sun-bleached buildings -- more Fire Island than Hamptons. Our visit to the restaurant "La Huella" is maybe my favorite time on the whole trip. The restaurant is right on the beach and I can feel sand in my toes. The weather is great, and I'm totally relaxed and in the mood for the mojito and good food I know are coming. I'm looking forward to chilling with Tony, eating good food by the sound of the waves, and relaxing.

Having a Famous Brother:
What is it like having a famous brother? I admit, it is sometimes strange. That's my brother all over bus stops! And sometimes in in-flight magazines when I go on business trips. I gather in Singapore and nearby, Tony has rock-star status. But Tony's always been a brilliant verbalist with a buzz-saw sense of humor, so I've never been surprised that some with money and connections finally figured this part out. When I see him on TV, I'm just like many fans who don't know him: I enjoy the travel to places I can only dream of going, laughing at his hilariously-expressed but bang-on social and cultural observations and his self-deprecating humor. I am proud of Tony and consider myself his biggest fan. But I get sooooo tired of people asking me, "Chris, where's your brother now?" "What's your brother eating now?" Yada, yada, yada ... Shut up!

Uruguay:
I love Uruguay and will miss it. I want to come back some day. I dislike pretension. Uruguay is delightful because it is so not pretentious. People have lots of space and are relaxed. They take pleasure in the small enjoyments of life the way one sees in areas around the Mediterranean in Europe. Food and wine are good, plentiful, and inexpensive -- at least for visiting Americans. The clothes in shop windows in the center of the capital are generally very un-chic, almost old-fashioned. I do not see a single McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, or other similar chain.

And I like it that way.