Anthony Bourdain

LIBYA

I’ve made a lot of hours of television over the years, but I think I’m proudest of Sunday’s Libya episode. I believe it is the best piece of work I’ve ever been part of. Some of that pride comes from recalling how difficult it was. My crew and I are not exactly seasoned veterans when it comes to shooting in “conflict zones”. We had to adapt to a whole new style of shooting—where prior preparation, instead of being a religion—became a security risk. Destinations couldn’t/shouldn’t—to the greatest extent possible, know we were coming. We had to learn to keep moving, spending only a short period at each location before moving on. We changed hotels frequently, spent as little time as possible milling about between vehicle and destination, refrained from social media, rarely went out for dinner off-camera.

Whether any of this was “necessary” is beside the point. Libya is a place where there is every likelyhood that everywhere you go and with everyone you meet, you will be greeted warmly, treated generously, welcomed with a smile or a thumbs up. It is also a place where very bad things happen to nice people—where things can go very, very wrong in a heartbeat.

While we were there, the close associate of one of our interview subjects was kidnapped. In Misrata, a popular elected official was assassinated with a silenced pistol. In Benghazi, the British Embassy was telling its citizens to leave. Generally speaking, highly trained security dudes do not want to even consider their idiotic on-camera “talent” charges anywhere near weapons—much less imagine the possibility of their operating one. During one tense moment, I was blithely reminded that “selector is on the left, clip release on the right. Extra clips in the seat back—and above you.”

It was not uncommon for my crew and I to be roused by our security late at night, told to pack our bags, grab our passports, get ready to head for the airport. These incidents were usually followed by group discussions—borderline arguments, really—where we would debate the issue of “stay or go”. I am very, very grateful to my stressed out crew that we stayed. As you will see the amazing result of their work on the screen.

Again, I’d like to underline that none of the stress, the heightened security measures, the omnipresence of weapons (wielded by the young, militia members from Misrata who looked after us when things started to get..tense) meant that anything bad happened to any of us. There were NO near death experiences. No close calls. (Okay. A bottle rocket ricocheted into my hair. Setting it momentarily on fire. It hurt for a second. Ouch.) Everywhere WE went, people were, more often than not, lovely to us. At one point, we unwittingly rolled up on the front gates of the internal security forces’ HQ, intending to shoot some cool graffiti. Some very sinister looking dudes were extraordinarily and unusually cool to us. Almost anywhere else, we would have been arrested immediately. In Misrata, the overwhelming concern of the various “militias” seemed to be to keep us safe, to keep order, to not let their city—for which they’d fought so hard—slide back into chaos. Even the Tripoli militia who you’ll see shutting us down while trying to shoot in the ruins of Gadaffi’s palace complex—they weren’t overtly hostile per se. It was more an armed version of a bureaucratic squabble over jurisdiction. These things happen when you’re talking about a “new” nation emerging from 40 years of maniacal autocracy. There is not, currently, much of a government. Order, to a great extent, is a DIY affair, maintained on what one might call: a volunteer basis.

What will stick with me about Libya, however, is not the tension—or all the things that might have gone wrong but didn’t. What will stick with me is the faces of the people we met—most of them very young. Young people in their twenties who, only a few weeks before the rebellion, were playing PS2, studying medicine, working abroad, learning to skateboard—who then rushed to fight. Again and again, these young people looked at our cameras and, in answer to a simple question, told us extraordinary things. The mix of hopefulness and pain in their faces is something I will always remember.

At one point, one young man, who had helped storm the Gaddafi compound, sat down with me to eat American style fast food chicken at KFC knock-off, “Uncle Kentacki”. “This is the taste of freedom”, he said, joyously, un-ironically—and with considerable pride. There was something beautiful in that.

The food in Libya is often delicious—with influences from Moorish Spain, Italy, across North Africa. The seafood in particular is excellent. It is a beautiful country—with perhaps the best preserved (and fantastically under-attended) ancient Roman City in the world—the magnificent Leptis Magna.

But what I hope people take away from this episode is a picture, a glimpse, of WHO we are talking about when we talk about Libya—and Libyans. It is a far more nuanced, complicated matter than what we might get from brief news stories.
I met a lot of people I liked. I hope you will like them too.

INTERZONE

“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.”
-Hassan-i Sabbah

When I was an angry young man, disillusioned with the world, disenchanted with my generation, disappointed by the “counter-culture” and looking for role models, William S. Burroughs’ paranoia and loathing, his anti-social appetites, his caustic, violently surreal wit, and his taste for controlled substances seemed to perfectly mirror my own aspirations.

I wanted to write. I wanted to be apart from everything I grew up with. In short, I wanted to be elsewhere. And the Tangier—the “Interzone” that Burroughs described—where he’d found himself exiled, strung out, writing the pages that eventually became “Naked Lunch” sounded, to my naïve young mind, like an exotic paradise. 

Tangier, of course, is part of Morocco—and however accepting it was of badly behaved expats, however “international” a city—it was always part of that nation. Traditional Arab/Berber life went on, always, around the dreamers, refugees, libertines and romantics who flocked there. 

This week’s show is not about Morocco. Nor is it about Tangier precisely. It’s about the intersection between the old world and the new, the modern and the ancient, the real world of real Moroccans and the fantasy created by generations of foreigners who came to Tangier to create, to one extent or another, an “Oriental” fantasy.

Unlike Burroughs, the author Paul Bowles genuinely loved Tangier. Unlike Burroughs, he stayed there, plunged deeply into Moroccan art, music and culture. He came as close to seeing the place for what it was as any who’ve visited. Not as a playland, but as an entity all its own—with fascinations far more lasting and important than hashish, majoun and inexpensive flesh for rent.

A culture as deep as Morocco cannot be “explained” in 42 minutes of television—much less 4 hours. And what you’ll see on the show is hardly a comprehensive overview or even, necessarily a helpful guide to the sights.

It will, I hope, give the flavor of a truly remarkable place—and inspire you to look deeper. There is no place like it in the world. It looks, smells, sounds and tastes like no other city. It is all to easy to lose oneself in the romantic ideal—more difficult to assess the place as it is: an increasingly modern port metropolis situated only a short boat ride from Europe.
It’s probably a good idea to do both: Live the dream for a bit.
But keep your eyes open. 
And be careful.
As you’ll see, many visitors came to Tangier for a short vacation and remained for life. It’s that kind of place. 

FOODFUCKED IN QUEBEC

Foodfucked: to be fed more food of a ridiculously high quality and deliciousness than deemed judicious by any reputable health authority whilst in no position to refuse

Chefs Martin Picard, David McMillan and Frederic Morin are masters of foodfuckery. They are loved, respected and feared by chefs from all over the world who’ve visited them at their restaurants in Montreal (Picard’s Au Pied de Cochon and McMillan and Morin’s Joe Beef and Liverpool House). They are justifiably feared for their generosity with fine wines and liqueurs, their profligacy with ingredients like black truffles and foie gras.

They are also, arguably, the most important, most influential chefs in Canada. Even a glancing association with any of their kitchens gives a cook in Brooklyn or Los Angeles an immediate hipster cred. This is, of course, particularly ironic given Mr. McMillan’s frequent threats to beat passing hipsters to death with a shovel.

They are Canadian. They are Quebecois. And what they bring to gastronomy is a particular embrace of French Canadian lumberjack appetites and joie de vivre—coupled with a deep respect for the traditions of dining and hospitality unique to their region.

They do not look like intellectuals, historians or gentlemen farmers. They look more like a motorcycle gang or well-fed fur trappers. But they are.

And in the week I spent with them recently for the making of this episode of PARTS UNKNOWN, they fed me as I have never been fed in my well-travelled life.

You will see food porn in this week’s episode so epic, so enticing, so devastating in its richness, flavors and sheer volume as to endanger the life. If I have ever made an episode of television where even WATCHING food being served can cause livers and other vital organs to explode or malfunction, this is it.

This episode is listed as being about CANADA. But it is clearly not. It is not even, really, about QUEBEC. It is, however about three characters—and the world they move around in—that could not have existed anywhere in the world BUT QUEBEC.

They are the magnificently mutated offspring of an old and glorious culture. They respect and cherish and preserve the best of the old, while creating and inspiring the new. They are dangerous, dangerous men.

I know you will like them.

Colombiana

I’d thought my unconditional love for Colombia was well established there. I’d visited for speaking engagements. I’d made a giddily enthusiastic episode of a previous series in Medellin and Cartagena. I’d waxed poetically and often about how well I’ve always been treated, how thrilling it is to see how far the country has come from its bad old days. I’m a fan of its people, its music, its food and its disarmingly injured pride. But coming out of the remote jungle village of Milaflores, I made a mistake.

I tweeted a photo of myself, standing under a shade tree, surrounded by young Colombian military recruits. My old friend and Top Chef colleague, Tom Colicchio tweeted right back: “ Too soon.” – connecting the appearance of machine guns with the then recent Newtown massacre. I tweeted back that “this what it looks like in FARC country.” Of course, I meant, “territory recently controlled by the FARC”—the very unpleasant Marxist guerilla group who’d been terrorizing Colombia for decades with kidnappings assassinations—and worse. They operate hand in glove with the cartels—essentially shaking them down and providing them with protection—in return for funds. And indeed, not too long before I arrived at the dirt airstrip, merchants in the small town are said to have accepted payment for basic goods and services with coca paste.

Now, Miraflores is swarming with army and police. The FARC, by almost all accounts, have been beaten back significantly. The phrase “FARC country” was not, however, interpreted as intended—as meaning an area, a neighborhood, a territory once under FARC control. Not in Colombia. Colombians were outraged. “I do NOT live in FARC country” and “how come you glorify those bastards?” were common responses. The twittersphere blew up with pissed off, deeply offended Colombians, reading second hand reports of what I was believed to have said. Many misidentified the young soldiers in the photo as being guerillas. Our fixers and drivers were very, very unhappy—in the uncomfortable position of being closely associated with someone (me) who was (for the next couple of days, anyway) widely thought to be a FARC sympathizer. Things bled into the print media and it was a tough couple of days. It was a clumsy, ill worded and foolish thing for me to have done.

Colombia is NOT, for the record, “a FARC country”. Far from it. As I should well have known, the struggle between the FARC, the cartels, and various right wing militias has been deeply felt by nearly every Colombian family. Opinions—even perceived opinions—can have consequences. Just about everybody you talk to—even in a present day Colombia that is much, much safer and secure—has lost someone to violence from one side or the other.

Colombia—more than anyone—has paid a terrible price in lives for the world’s seemingly bottomless appetite for cocaine—and for the greed of a relative few. And if you ever wondered “how come they don’t get a handle on things down there”, all you need do is look at the place. The country is huge. It is about 70% sparsely populated (and gorgeous) jungle, mountains and coastline opening up onto both the Caribbean and the Pacific. It is ideologically divided. And it has neighbor problems. Venezuela next door has been all too happy to provide safe haven and even covert military assistance to the FARC. Panama’s Darien Gap offers some of the world’s most impenetrable jungles. Colombia has been very successful in recent years in its war on cartel and FARC related violence. But the ludicrous futility of any fully successful “war on drugs” is apparent with a single look out of a plane window. In spite of all its painful history, Colombia is emerging as what SHOULD be a vacation wonderland. Have I said yet how beautiful the place is? It’s incredible. It’s fun. And yes—it’s safe. Every day, more so. Cartagena has some of the most beautiful colonial architecture you’re likely to find anywhere in Latin America. A great bar scene. Amazing food and architecture. Medellin is a modern, sophisticated, enormously enjoyable place to spend time—as far from its image as a murder capital as you can imagine. And people are heartbreakingly welcoming and happy to see visitors who have come to their beautiful country for something other than to talk about narcos and violence. Cali is a party town to rival Miami. The beaches along the coasts are as unspoiled as your wildest fantasies. And yet many people still don’t go.

I would urge you to put aside the stereotypes. If you want to find bad people in Colombia, you can surely find them—as you could in New York or Los Angeles. But nowhere have my crew and I been treated better or with more kindness and generosity. I’d bring my family on vacation there in a heartbeat. And hope to soon. As I said before: Colombians are proud. Let them show you what they are proud of.

That said, this week’s Colombia episode of PARTS UNKNOWN marks another great moment in Bourdainian stupidity. Faithful viewers of my previous program on that other, less good network, might remember my previous misadventure on an ATV. You’d think I would have learned from that experience, a long barrel roll down a sand dune, wrapped around a few hundred pounds of metal and machinery. I was very, very lucky to have emerged from that experience with limbs and skull intact. That maybe I’d be smart enough to realize that maybe off road vehicles were just not for me.
No.
In Colombia, I saddled up once again—and as you’ll see—managed to fly off the seat, drive my head straight into the ground (helmet-less, of course), and (my producers insist) somehow succeed in running over my own head. Though I was “out” for a brief micro-second there—I remember bounding to my feet, unwilling to be embarrassed by the glaringly obvious: I should have worn the helmet they offered. I should have driven more carefully. I probably shouldn’t—given my record—been driving the damn thing at all. Comedy Gold.

K-TOWN

“What, exactly, is ‘parts unknown’ about Los Angeles?”

It’s a fair question that cuts right to the heart of what we’re trying to do.

Of all the locations on earth, Los Angeles has probably appeared on film or tape or memory card more than any other. In fact, making Southern California look like somewhere else has been a primary concern for filmmakers since the beginnings of Hollywood.  My partners at Zero Point Zero production and I have shot in LA before. Twice.

So, where the  **** do we get off trying to shoot something “new” about Los Angeles?

A few years back, fresh off the success of Kitchen Confidential and new to the ways of life outside the kitchen, I found myself staying at a hotel in West Hollywood where the kitchen staff were fans. They were also Korean. And in the course of events, I found myself accompanying them to places that I—though I’d been to LA a few times—had no idea existed.  Even though LA was newly in the grip of some of the country’s most restrictive anti-smoking laws, every place these cooks brought me were packed with young Koreans, drinking soju, eating and smoking at the same time. Many of the places they brought me—in what turned out to be a fairly drunken bounce from one place to another to another—first denied being a business, then, on what appeared to be the basis of my wrong ethnicity— denied me entrance, only admitting me after being shouted at in Korean by my posse of cooks. Interestingly, many of these businesses continued serving alcohol long after what I had previously believed local ordinances permitted.

The next day, I didn’t remember getting home but I did remember what I’d gotten a glimpse of the night before: another world—existing right under the noses of another one.

So, I thought, for this episode, we’d try to shoot Los Angeles entirely from the point of view of people who grew up in Koreatown. We’d shoot this most over-photographed of cities as if no one BUT Koreans—and their immediate neighbors (Mexicans, Sri Lankans, Filipinos…) existed. As if the Hollywood sign,  the Hills, the movie industry,  and white people in general just…never happened. In our episode, K-Town would be Center of the World.

I thought about recent discussions with my friends, the chef and author, Roy Choi—and the artist, David Choe, about the effect the LA riots of the early 90’s had on their world view and that of their families. As I know many Koreans—and because all of them seem to suffer from some dark,  unarticulated burden—an unspoken  pressure to be something other than how they see themselves. I began to explore the Korean concept of “han”, an existential sense of pain and rage that is said to pass from generation to generation and wondered how I might discuss that in the show. 

A window into the soul of the Korean American? Nah…I wouldn’t go that far.  At very least, this episode will be a window into some VERY delicious Korean food. If you’re not hungry after this one—there’s no hope for you.

Film nerds might notice our shameless rip off of the “look” Michael Mann gave to the driving interiors in the film “Collateral”.  Or they might not. This episode also marks our first use of a “drone-cam”, a small, remote controlled , flying helicopter-mount for our cameras. 

Onwards!

BURMA FAREWELL

It’s a very special moment when you arrive someplace, look around at a vista that is clearly, awe-inspiringly fantastic and realize: “Holy ****! Almost no one else has SEEN this!”

After many years of looking at some pretty impressive vistas, I have to be honest: It makes it better. Let’s face it, the first French dude to push aside some jungle brush and look upon Angkor Wat was probably a hell of a lot more excited about it than I was. (And I was pretty excited). It’s a greedy, selfish instinct—the notion that this is all for you, that you are singularly fortunate to have seen this—that you—and only you, get ALL the cake.

I don’t know what Hiram Bingham thought when he looked up at Macchu Piccu for the first time. He certainly hadn’t “discovered” the place. He was probably just the first non-Indian to have gazed upon it. But I’ll bet he felt pretty smug about his accomplishment. “Will you look at that! Wow! And it’s been here all along! Dumb bastards been traipsing through these parts for centuries and they missed THIS!”

That’s kind of how I felt looking out at the ancient temple complex of Bagan in Myanmar. An unlovely instinct, I grant you. But like I said; I get to see a lot of beautiful vistas. Way too many of them, after all these miles, take on the importance of moving wallpaper. So it’s something really special to be thrilled by ruins—hair stand-up-on-back-of-neck- excited by a view.

Of course, plenty of visitors have been through Bagan over the years. But for Americans, the country now known as Myanmar has been mostly a place to avoid. I’ve avoided it for years—in spite of a terrific curiosity about the place— because I didn’t want to help a very unpleasant, totalitarian government stay in power.

But things have really started to shift in Myanmar. It’s still a military regime in charge. They are still up to some very nasty business in the parts of the country they do not let Westerners go. But the people are now, for the very first time in over half a century, relatively free to speak their minds. From a society where huge segments of the daily papers were routinely—and without explanation—hacked out by censors, where having an opinion could be a very dangerous thing..and where just about everybody with an opinion has been to jail—it’s pretty remarkable to see what’s happening.

Most remarkable, I think, was how open people were with us—how willing they were to talk –how not shy they were with our cameras, when only a little over a year ago, talking with a Western film crew could land you in prison. The door is opening in Myanmar—and we are very proud to show you some of what’s happening inside.

Yes, this is happening. 

Backstage with me and the zpz live crew, as documented by mr gif.  Full set here. 

NEXT

Monday’s episode in Penang is, in my opinion, one of the best shot, best edited episodes ever. It helped that we were in what cinematographers call a “shot rich environment”—where it seems that everywhere you point, there are bright colors, characters, beautiful things. The food is generally thought of (even by many proud food nerds in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur) to be among the very best in the Straits— and I think you’ll see why. Penang is the kind of place that ruined me for an ordinary life.

I feel inexorably attached to Malaysia for many reasons, but one of them is that I got there early in my career as a traveler, wasn’t really ready for it, and was changed by the place. It seduced and overwhelmed me at the same time. The smells and colors and flavors—the look and sound of the place, the at times impenetrable mix of Indian, Malay and Chinese cultures—it ****ed me all up.

I tried to capture that in the first scene—a shot of a woman’s fingers, unwrapping nasi lemak from its traditional banana leaf package. That’s a particularly vivid image for me, and it’s yet another testament to the ZPZ crew that they were able to recreate it so perfectly. Scenes like this matter to me. And the ability to imagine a thing—and then see it executed brilliantly, that matters too.

It was never my intention on NO RESERVATIONS to be a reporter, a critic, an advocate. It was also never my intention to provide audiences with “everything” they needed to know about a place—or even a balanced or comprehensive overview. I am a storyteller. I go places, I come back. I tell you how the places made me feel. Through the use of powerful tools like great photography, skillful editing, sound mixing, color correction, music (which is often composed specifically for the purpose) and brilliant producers, I can—in the very best cases—make you feel a little bit like I did at the time. At least I hope so. It’s a manipulative process. It’s also a deeply satisfying one.

As you may or may not have heard, at a point in the not too far away future, the Zero  Point Zero team and I will be moving on to do what we do elsewhere. We recently filmed the last shot of our last episode. That means you’ve got 9 new episodes of NO RESERVATIONS still yet to be edited, or waiting in the pipeline to be aired. We have yet to shoot 10 new episodes of THE LAYOVER, which we’ll do this June and July. After that, I’m planning on taking my first extended break in eight years. A “normal” family vacation—where I plan to putter to excess, dote on my daughter—and do what people are said to do on vacation. Also, I’ll be writing a book.

Rest assured that whatever ZPZ and I do in the future, we will not be dumbing it down, we will not change our basic natures, we will not be morphing into something we are not. We will continue to do what we do. And have a hell of a good time doing it.

BBQ APOCALYPSE

I’ve referred only half jokingly over the years to the early days of my television career when, after two seasons of making shows around the world for A COOK’S TOUR, I was advised that audiences just didn’t respond to all those foreign locations where people talked funny and sometimes (horror of horrors) even had to be subtitled. My cruel masters sat back in their chairs and with dreamy, wistful looks suggested how wonderful it would be if I could just confine my interests to shows about tailgate parties, pony rides and….barbecue. “Exotic” locations were problematic, they suggested. They didn’t fit in with their ” current business model.” 

Well, after 8 years of NO RESERVATIONS, in which I have been allowed to travel this world unfettered and largely without constraint, I found myself once again thinking, “What’s the most ****ed up thing I can do on the show?” The answer, it seemed, was to embrace the beast. Go right back and do what would have been unthinkable back then (or at any time since): make a show about a subject that every single travel and food show has done a million times, in a place that has been more than adequately covered (as least as relates to slowly smoked meats). Go right to the heart of core Americana—that uniquely All-American genre of cookery called Kansas City Barbecue. And while I was at it, I thought—why not go all the way—attend my very first tailgate party? What could be more unlike me? I’ve been to Saudi Arabia. Tribal Liberia. China. Why couldn’t I embrace this curious and much loved indigenous practice as I had this—just cause it’s American? The plan? To go to Kansas City—and challenge ourselves to making a single subject show—almost entirely about briskets, ribs, pulled pork, sticky sauce—and yet do it in a way that had never been done before. Meaning, I would challenge the fine ZPZ team of talented cinematographers to make Barbecue Porn so extreme, so hardcore, so enticing that we could bring life to even this tired subject.  And what would I say about all this? What would be my point of view?
It came to me over late night vodka shots in a Croatian parking lot: ZAMIR!

Who better to explore those most American of subjects than my always optimistic Russian friend? What better way to look at my first tailgate experience than through the fresh,  un-jaded eyes of my veteran sidekick for whom America is still a Wonderland of the unfamiliar, strange and fabulous?  Lured by possibly misleading promises that he would be trained and groomed to replace me as a television travel host, Zamir was flown to Kansas City where he would be (he was assured) instructed in the dark arts of hosting a food show.  On Monday night, you will see the results.

And we would need music. Good music. More importantly, we would need cheap good  music. Fortunately, I had recently become aware that the Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney of THE BLACK KEYS were very fond of a good meal and were, after many years on the road, susceptible to offers of free food. In return for a lunch of chicken wings and ribs, they quickly agreed to drive their van from their hometown of Akron Ohio, to Kansas City and join me for an afternoon of bourbon and barbecue.
 
The tailgate party, by the way, turned out to be something of a mystical experience. The Kansas City Chiefs had not been having a good season when we arrived. Even the most enthusiastic KC fans that day, huddled in the cold parking lot outside the stadium, did not give them much chance against the phenomenally streaking Green Bay Packers. But they hadn’t accounted for the Magical Powers of Zamir. He arrived fully decked in Chiefs colors, waving his giant foam hand and screaming “Let’s Pack the Packers” (while consuming Godawful quantities of Jello shots and bourbon). His unbridled, child-like enthusiasm proved contagious, urging the team on to an unexpected upset. Local talk radio the next day suggested that my Russian friend might have in some way, actually been responsible for this victory. Had he given the Packers the “Evil Eye”? Was he some kind of Eastern European Good Luck Charm? Did he have…”Powers?”  The next day, local sports radio spoke in hushed and respectful tones of the bearded Russian who had appeared—supernaturally—in the parking lot prior to the game, spoken in what were described as “tongues” (or possibly gibberish), invoking through some ancient Dark Art, a force that swept across the gridiron that day, and crushed the sons of Lombardi under the Chief’s mighty hooves. 

There is a lot more to see—and to eat— in Kansas City than barbecue.  But that’s not what we were there for. We had other business: To go where many had gone before. Only do it better. And weirder. 

I think, I hope, we succeeded.