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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Once and a while someone on one of these message boards makes a comment
to the effect of "I wish I had your job" or "You have my dream job" usually
directed at one of the 'No Reservations' producers.

I recently had the opportunity to observe producer/director Paul Cabana and
segment producer Rennik Soholt "living the dream" as it were and it was
an interesting reality check.

I met the whole crew when they arrived at our hotel in Tokyo with the intention of taping their arrival. They were coming off of a week in Laos and looked it. In fact, they looked so sick, tired and out of it I actually took pity on them and turned off my camera.

Rule #1 to the dream; you work sick, you work tired and then you start the next show with one days "rest."

Incidentally, Rule #1 doesn't apply to Tony. He had a press conference an hour after he arrived; or Rennik. Segment producers work with our in-country "fixers" to make sure that we really have something to shoot so that there's a show to edit later. Segment producers quickly learn that about half of whatever's been "confirmed" over the phone has changed, disappeared, been misrepresented or otherwise come unglued by the time we've arrived.

Our Japan fixer Michiko is as good as it gets and yet she and Rennik were either in conference or on the phone constantly during the trip.

Other things the segment producer does;
a) Log the 75 hours of tape shot in Laos so that they can be loaded
as soon as we get back.
b) Act as camera assist on the shoots. Rennik knows whose wide angle lens
is whose, which batteries go where and keeps the gear from disappearing.
c) Supply food and drugs. Yes, drugs. Advil, Aleve, Tylenol, Excedrin,
a dozen other pain killers and most importantly Imodium (don't leave home without it, seriously).

So maybe you'd like to direct. That must have been Paul's dream once. To show up at a location you've never seen, plot out a two camera shoot and try to establish a story line consistent with the rest of the show in
about 20 minutes. That and get enough B roll footage and establishing
shots, much of which he shoots himself as our third camera.