Anthony Bourdain

RAW

Generally speaking, there are two distinct audiences for this show: people who like to look at images of food and are interested in where it comes from and how it got to the plate—and people who like to travel—or like the idea of travel—and enjoy watching images of faraway places and cultures. Oh—and there’s also a smaller group who apparently enjoy watching me get falling down drunk and stupid. But that’s another matter.

This week’s episode is about food. More specifically, it’s about the creative process that leads up to the food that will eventually be served in some of the world’s finest restaurants.

COOK IT RAW is an amazingly low key gathering of some of the best and most creative chefs in the world. For the last few years, people like Rene Redzepi of Denmark’s NOMA (recently named best restaurant in the world for the second year in a row), Alex Atala of Sao Paulo’s DOM, Albert Adria (El BULLI, TICKETS), Mauro Collagreco, Massimo Bottura, Daniel Patterson, David Chang, Magnus Nilsson and others have been getting together in various remote and fairly off the main grid locations where they challenge each other to forage, improvise, figure out what’s good in each location—then, using non-traditional methods—make the most seriously ****ed up creative single plate their fevered imaginations can muster. The result does not have to be usable in a restaurant setting. It is not supposed to be a fully realized dish. It is definitely not something that any of the chefs have ever served or even tried before. It should be something so wild, so out there, so purely creative and exploratory that the other chefs will suck wind and issue a collective “wooaaahhhh.”

For a few days each year, COOK IT RAW serves as a combination workshop, field trip, summer camp for culinary hotshots. And it’s a lot of fun.

This year, COOK IT RAW was held in Ishikawa prefecture in Japan—and NO RESERVATIONS decided to look at the area—-and at the event largely through the eyes of first time invitee to the gathering—and first time visitor to Japan, Charleston South Carolina’s Sean Brock. Sean is a young chef from coal country who in a remarkably short period of time has become a big name in the culinary firmament. At his restaurant HUSK, he’s been trying to rediscover traditional American heritage foods, source ingredients entirely and exclusively from below the Mason Dixon line—and redefine what “real” Southern cooking is—or could-be.  He’s a very serious guy (except when he’s not) with impeccable taste in bourbon. Watching him discover Japan for the first time was a true joy.

COOK IT RAW is, unlike any food and wine festival I can think of, about the pure spirit of creativity. There are no public events. No free tastings. After days of exploring local culture and food sourcing methods and techniques—and doing a hell of a lot of eating and drinking, the visiting chefs (along with some local ones), gather (by any means necessary) their ingredients—many of them unfamiliar—and cook. The plates or service “platforms” they put their food on, are created by local craftsmen. The chefs have no say in choice of “plate” and have to accommodate some occasionally very freaky designs. The results of their labors are served to a small group of local and visiting journalists.

There are no winners or losers or grading or official evaluating of the meal. Each chef presents their dish, then retires to the kitchen. Presumably, at some point later—probably over many sakes, or while marinating in the onsen, the chefs discuss among themselves what they’ve learned from the experience.

Kooky. Huh?

Anyway, it should be fascinating TV .

I want to thank the organizers of COOK IT RAW, and of course, the chefs. They had not previously had to live with an invading television crew during their adventures. They were—across the board—friendly, inviting, generous with their time, and fun to be around.

I wish I could say the same for one of the “lions” of the food writing community—someone who (until this trip) I had always liked and looked up to. Over the course of a few days, he revealed himself to be the most vicious, abusive, misogynistic, back-biting piece of shit I have ever met in my life. (and after 30 years in the restaurant business, that’s saying something). I’m hardly the nicest or most polite guy in the world. But even I was shocked. When not shouting profanities at the chefs, bursting into noisy and prolonged bouts of flatulence during the traditional tea ceremony, insulting and belligerently interfering with my crew by petulantly flashing his cell phone camera directly into their eyes while they were working (“I’m a journalist! I’m allowed!”), this guy was drinking himself stupid. It was only through their infinite mercy—and perhaps no small amount of pity for this elderly and shambolic creature, that my crew did not punch his face in. They were sorely tempted. Anyone who attended the event will surely recognize which particular steaming dribble of ordure I’m talking about.  

Lesson is?  **** with my crew, you **** with me.

On that cheery note, be sure to tune in Monday! 

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.

Hard 8

Eight seasons of NO RESERVATIONS.  Who would have guessed?  I sure as Hell wouldn’t have. How long could we get away with it? Not very long was the prevailing wisdom. And yet here we are.  Nearly 700,000 air miles later, about two thirds of the way through shooting—and it’s looking pretty good. Mozambique—airing tonight—looks SO good, in fact, that our Emmy Award winning cinematographer Zach Zamboni says it’s the finest work he’s ever done.  (Personally, I think the upcoming Penang episode is a close contender).

In following weeks, we attempt to take the much photographed world of Kansas City Barbecue waaay past 11 on the food porn dial, investigate the Croatian Coast,  visit Lisbon, Baja, Penang, Burgundy, Austin,  Finland—and take you deep inside the mysterious cult of the annual gathering of Cook It Raw (this year in Japan), where some of the world’s best chefs challenge each other to seek, forage—and then cook far, far out of the box. Soon to be shot are shows in Emilia Romagna, the Dominican Republic, Rio and Israel.

“Where have you not been that you’d like to—but haven’t been able to?” is a question I’m asked frequently these days. And the answer is Libya, the Congo, Iran, Myanmar. Difficult places all. Myanmar has been loosening up a lot lately so I’m hopeful that’s in our future. We’ve been trying to do a Libya show since the beginnings of the uprising there—but security concerns seem to foil us at the last minute every time we get close. It’s a major frustration. The Congo is another place I’d love to do a show. Its history has been a long personal obsession. Year after year, any hopes of shooting there have also been foiled. The people—and the food— of Iran have come highly recommended, year after year, by travelers who have been there. It’s actually a very young country demographically. But their government is way too loathsome and unpredictable at this point to reliably plan a shoot there—and there’s talk, of course of imminent airstrikes on their nuclear facilities. So, probably not this season. 

“Is it still fun?” is another question I’m asked often.

Answer: “Hell, yeah.” 

Our ride. I shall name you, “Big Bopper”

Outrageously good pork and cabrito last night at Porteño Sydney

OVER. AROUND. THROUGH.

Our late model SUV roars down the two lane highway between Nampula and Ilhe Mocambique. Two white guys in front: me (an American) and Fernando (Portuguese) and Carlos, our Mozambican fixer in the back. Fernando’s got the car pushing 80, blowing past mud hut villages with thatched roofs no power, no water, life inside largely unchanged in a hundred years but for the school children in their freshly washed uniforms returning from school in the baking heat. All along the route, families crouch in the sun, or under the shade of baobab trees, sorting cashews. Every few hundred yards, a young man in ragged clothes extends an arm with a plastic pail into the path of our oncoming vehicle, hoping we’ll slow down, stop, buy some nuts. 

We whip right by them. It seems, I am uncomfortably aware, a perfect metaphor for much of Africa.

We are back shooting new episodes of NO RESERVATIONS and immediately noticeable what a difference it is from the experience of making THE LAYOVER. Unlike the relatively languid pace of NoRes, we shot 10 episodes of The Layover in a month and half, a mostly experimental high speed crunch through three continents, my crew running backwards, pulling focus on their new Panavision lenses, verite style. The heat in Singapore and Hong Kong brutal, a week’s worth of meals in two days and unlike NoRes, the bastards were shooting every minute. No escape from the harsh, gaze of their cameras.

A “coffee shop” in Amsterdam. A mind boggling variety of insanely potent blends of hydro laid out before me. (Of course, as a responsible television host and role model for youth, I did NOT participate in anything so bestial as the use of mind altering substances—even in a city where their use is legal. That would be wrong. And no doubt contrary to network policy!) Strangely, and with no prior warning, I found myself….uncomfortable with the crowd in the smoky room. I began to withdraw into myself—one of those weird, mini-moments of paranoia where you think everybody’s looking at you. Only in my case, everybody WAS looking at me. Three cameras hung in the air a few feet from my nose, unblinking, waiting, waiting for me to come out of my shell. I sat stunned and cotton-mouthed, looking in vain for an escape. My host, a jovial, red-eyed weed barista said, “Dude! You okay?”

It’s nearing the end of another epically long, delicious and excessive meal at Montreal’s JOE BEEF. There’s been some wine consumed and we are now deep into the Calvados.  The conversation has drifted (as it tends to in such circumstances) away from matters at hand—like what to do on Layovers and how cool Montreal is and Fred and Dave, my hosts are catching up on chef gossip and the like.  Producer Tom Vitale (twitter handle @tvsuperstarr)  starts to get the concerned puppy look he gets when he’s not getting the on-camera “content” he needs and gently—if somewhat slurringly, interjects, putting to  Dave a TV friendly question, trying to get him back on topic.
“So, Dave…What do you LOVE about Montreal?” he inquires. 
The question lands with a dull thud at the table.  There is a moment of silence as Dave, a rather large—some say imposing— fellow festooned with much ink, smiles warmly and considers. In a low, sweetly benign tone, he says to me—without looking at Tom (but heard in his earpiece). 
“You know…I like him. I love him. I love him so much I’d like to make a skin suit out of him. I wonder what his pelvis will sound like when I break it?”

Tom barely spoke for two days.

San Francisco. Last day of the series shoot. Wrap party at the Fairmont Hotel’s magnificent Tonga Room.  After many (some might say too many) Mai Tai’s, two time  Emmy Award winning  cinematographer Zach Zamboni (twitter handle @zachzamboni) peels off his clothes and hurls himself into the un-chlorinated Tonga Lagoon. Not medically advisable we are informed by our waiter. Stone, the network line producer, on site to observe, follows suit. I have the photos.

SOUTHERN COMFORT

I just got back from family vacation, where, for ten days, I violated all my rules and everything I’ve ever preached about how to travel.  I stayed put. I rarely left the hotel grounds.  I ate in the same two restaurants for most of my trip—rarely deviating from pasta, pizza and gelato. Though there was a lake a few hundred yards walk down, I never put so much as a toe in it—spending the bulk of my days instead, splashing around in the shallow end of the pool with a Barbie pail , an inflatable porpoise, and a relentlessly energetic 4 year old girl. It was marvelous.

I missed—or was at least physically absent from—the monstrously overblown “controversy” about the dietary choices of  “regular people” and the larger question of whether I am  a cruel, horrible, snake-eating, Yankee liberal elitist—or just an occasionally obnoxious guy making a point.  Or a bit of both. Without revisiting a week where I found myself in the rare, worrying– and yet strangely  satisfying position of having both FOX News AND the New York Times drop a deuce on my head, I’ll let this Monday’s episode of NO RESERVATIONS make my argument for me.

The show begins in New Orleans, a city I feel very connected to—and continues deep into the heart of Cajun country and culture. The South—particularly (but not exclusively) Louisiana, is where “American” food comes from.  There are certainly other uniquely regional cuisines and specialties in this country—but creole and Cajun constitute uniquely American-born mutations. They could not have occurred anywhere else.  Like the birth of jazz—they were created  at bizarre yet magical intersections of cultures and circumstances—the end products of long journeys, much pain and simple pleasures.

One of the things I’m always looking at as I travel around the world is “where the cooks come from”.  And if there’s a regular feature, a common thread wherever you go in this world, it’s that the best cooks and often the best chefs come from the poorest or most challenging regions.  And it is without doubt that the greatest , most beloved and iconic dishes in the pantheon of gastronomy—in any of the world’s mother cuisines—French, Italian or Chinese–originated with poor, hard-pressed, hard working farmers and laborers with no time, little money and no refrigeration.

Pot au Feu , Coq au Vin, Sup Tulang, Cassoulet, pasta, polenta, confit, —all of them began with the urgent need to make something good and reasonably sustaining out of very little.  So many of the French classics began with the need to throw a bunch of stuff into a single pot over the coals, leave it simmering unattended all day while the family worked the fields, hopefully to return to something tasty and filling that would get them through the next day.  French cooking, we tend to forget now, was rarely (for the majority of Frenchmen) about the best or the priciest or even the freshest ingredients. It was about taking what little you had or could afford and turning it into something delicious without interfering with the grim necessities of work and survival.  The people I’m talking about here didn’t have money—or time to cook.  And yet along with similarly pressed Italians, Chinese, Spanish, Portuguese, Indians and other hungry innovators around the world, they created many of the enduring great dishes of history.

So the notion that hard working, hard pressed families with little time and slim budgetshave to eat crappy, processed food –or that unspeakably, proudly unhealthy “novelty dishes” that come from nowhere but the fevered imaginations of marketing departments are—or should be—the lot of the working poor is nonsense.

The many Cajuns who were good enough to host us on this Monday’s episode make this case, I think, far better than I ever could.  Notice, when you watch the show, howeverybody cooks.  Men, women—even the kids seem to be helping out.  Many aren’t cooks, per se, but everybody we met , everybody, was really, really good at at least one dish.  Cajuns proudly trace their roots to a particularly harsh and brutal diaspora, followed by a steep learning curve as they adapted to an incredibly difficult new environment.  Their culinary traditions reflect that.

At the traditional “boucherie” I  attended, an  entire community swung into action within seconds of me putting two  bullets into the guest of honor.   And one and all– everyone, from musicians, mechanics, to the town mayor—set about demonstrating the real guiding principles of  gastronomy. Slow cooked, “smothered” and “stuffed” turkey wings, a stew made from the backbone of the pig,  delicious, hot boudin made from the blood or less expensive bits, head cheese, cracklins. None of this was expensive. None of the cooks were professionally trained. But what I ate that day—and on other days—in Lafayette, Breaux Bridge and Eunice was some of the most delicious food I’ve had anywhere.

And what about New Orleans? There’s nothing fancy or expensive about the wonderfully kooky Afro-Chinese hybrid street food, Yakkamein, or red beans and rice—or the fried chicken at Willie Mae’s.  A good muffaletta sandwich, an oyster Po’ Boy—these are not expensive luxuries, they’re birthrights—and no one who’s eaten them can ever say they are any less delicious than anything served in a Michelin starred dining room. Made well, by someone who knows what they’re doing, they are unimprovable by man or God.  They are also, one would assume, quite delicious and quite fattening enough without squeezing them between two Cinnabons.

For ****’s sake, the South pretty much taught us all to cook.  They know what good, affordable  food is—having pretty much written the book on the subject. All I’m saying is that Macaroni and cheese is a good and noble dish.  Deep fried macaroni and cheese is no better and certainly no more affordable.

This is the last episode of NO RESERVATIONS of this season.   We begin shooting a new season  in September, but in the interim period, while we’re out there travelling, I hope you’ll find amusement—and maybe even some useful information– in THE LAYOVER, a ten episode, high speed mini-series we just shot in an alternately thrilling and exhausting bounce  around the world, from New York, Singapore,  Hong Kong, Rome, San Francisco, Miami,  Montreal, Amsterdam, London, and Los Angeles.

And for the NOLA/Cajun episode, I want to thank Lolis Eric Elie, Wendell Pierce,  David Simon and everybody from the HBO series “TREME”, upon whose previous works and extensive research and experience we shamelessly piggybacked.

DESERT SESSION: A Letter to Josh Homme’s Daughter

Dear Camille,

I hear you were very upset with me after seeing the promo for this show, which I filmed recently with your Daddy and his friends. You saw me take Daddy’s guitar and smash it against a tree and I’m sure that was upsetting. That this was in fact a not so subtle homage to the early works of John Landis and John Belushi is something you could have hardly been expected to know, ANIMAL HOUSE having been released long before you were born, and I apologize. 

Know that that was in fact, not really Daddy’s guitar, and that we were both just playing around. In real life, Daddy would have been very angry were I to do such a thing–and as he is a large man, I strongly suspect I would not still be here to write this letter. I like your Daddy very much. We are friends. Your Daddy was very nice to let me and my camera crew hang out with him all week at all his favorite places and to make totally awesome music for us.

I like your Daddy so much, that when an obnoxious superfan of mine at a magical place called Pappy and Harriet’s got up in Daddy’s face–had your Daddy not gently guided him by the thorax to the welcoming arms of security–I would have broken my beer glass across the man’s skull and then jabbed the jagged remnants into his ****ing neck. That’s the kind of guy I am. I had your Daddy’s back–just like he had mine. You will learn about these things later–possibly in grammar school.

When you watch the show, I hope there is nothing else in there that upsets you. You will surely see how completely brilliant Daddy is at work. You will hear a lot of great music. If you are a foodie, you will probably be terribly disappointed at the change of focus in this week’s episode, but at your tender age, I doubt that such a terrible thing as that could have befallen you. Life, for you, is still filled with hope and promise. Yes, Daddy seems to be drinking a lot of tequila on the show. But he never got drunk. Not that I saw anyway. He is a pretty good cook too–though this is something you surely know by now. I cook my daughter grilled cheese sandwiches. What does your Daddy cook you?

Sincerely,

Anthony

A BEGINNING. AN END

It all began with Ferran Adria in more ways than one. It was because he reached out to me in 2001, invited me to come see him (in spite of the fact that I had written unflatteringly of him in Kitchen Confidential) that my partnership with zero point zero productionbegan. It was because he agreed to throw his life, his restaurant, his workshop and creative process open to our cameras that we began our first venture in independent television production. It was because of him–and Food Network’s lack of interest in an El Bulli show–that Chris Collins, Lydia Tenaglia and I went out on our own, reached into our pockets and funded that first bare bones trip to Spain to shoot what later became the film (and subsequent episode of No Reservations), “Decoding Ferran Adria”. It was Ferran, who, truth be told, became the impetus for our show, now in its 7th year. And it was Ferran who was responsible for my meeting Chef Jose Andres when he showed up at an early screening of the film as his US representative. I can well remember Jose standing up at the end of the film and announcing to the audience his approval. It was a very proud moment for me. In those days, when Jose’s mouth moved, it often seemed that Spain was speaking. That kind of generosity should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever known or worked with Ferran Adria or his brother, Albert. They have always shared, never clung jealously to their hard won creations. And once again, in spite of the world world banging at their door, looking to get one last meal, one last interview, one last meal at their legendary restaurant, once again, they opened their lives to me.

It peeves me beyond reason to read unknowing people describe El Bulli as “fancy”, or “pretentious” or ” snobby.” Nothing could have been further from the truth. For a third of my last meal there, we ate with our hands. There were no elaborate table settings. It was never a particularly expensive restaurant by European standards–especially three star Michelin ones. Best I can tell, they never even operated at a profit. Jackets and ties were never required. If it was ”exclusive”, that was only because millions more people wanted to eat there than their 50 odd seats could accommodate. Yet, somehow,tables were made available on a regular basis for fishmongers, bartenders and cooks from the neighboring town of Roses. If sous chefs from Chicago to Sydney seemed, magically, to receive the kind of treatment usually reserved for government ministers and oligarchs, it speaks all the better of them.

I don’t know if Monday’s episode is the best depiction of what the Adrias did at El Bulli–though I’m pretty damn sure it is. I do know that our producers and camera people and editors and post production people went all out–did their very best work. This show was a labor of love and much gratitude. We were determined to get it right.
We shot in Hospitalet, the town near Barcelona where the brothers grew up. We shot the staff meal at El Bulli. It was insisted I work the line a bit–to get a better idea of what’s really involved in getting those amazing creations to the table.
We shot the single greatest restaurant meal of my life–and one of the very last to be served there. We shot at Tickets, the more casual restaurant in Barcelona which, by the time you read this, will be the only place you can eat the food of an Adria brother.
We shot–and will show you–what’s next for El Bulli, which closes as a restaurant any minute now–forever. You will see the animations and blueprints of the entity to come–and hear Ferran describe his plans for the future.

And, to a great extent, you will see all of this through the eyes of Jose Andres, who began his career as a young cook at El Bulli, and who joined me for an unforgettable careen through Catalonia, eating and drinking and enjoying life as one can, it seems, only in his presence. I’m still recovering. Jose alone would be reason enough to watch this show. By the time you see the show, what you will be watching will be history.

The Red Sauce Trail

Growing up in New Jersey back in the bad old days of American gastronomy,  “Italian” food inevitably meant the same thing, wherever you found it:  deep fried, breaded and  pounded veal cutlets, swimming in red sauce with a raft of gluey semi-melted cheese on top,  overcooked spaghetti, usually pre-prepared in large batches, rinsed  of its starches in cold water, reheated and then indifferently topped with a ladle of the same red sauce as above.   Enormous, bready meatballs, fragrant with dried oregano, baked ziti the consistency of caulking compound..

Fine dining Italian didn’t depart too far from this, adding the occasional Crespella or zuppa but making sure to keep the classic moneymakers (see spaghetti and meatballs) around.  I’m not saying I hated that stuff either.  I love big, bready meatballs and generic red sauce—especially on a hero roll around 2 O’ clock in the morning. Baked ziti? I admit to  experiencing a frisson of desire  every time Tony Soprano would reach into his fridge for some cold leftover. I secretly looked forward to deaths in the family of high school friends—because their houses would suddenly and magically fill up with short women in black dresses, all of them cooking  mysterious and delicious red things in foil containers.

I grew up eating generic, droopy, utility quality pizza—the kind you let sit on the board for a while so the cheese could congeal—before eating while walking, wide-stanced, to avoid the grease, down the street. I admit to a deep love for red sauce, the kind we all joked, was pumped through a central “Sauce Main”  from one Italian restaurant and one pizzeria to another throughout New York and Northern New Jersey.
 
Problem was, none of that stuff was really “Italian”. Or so it suddenly seemed. Somewhere in the late 70’s or 80’s,  red sauce was no longer cool. It was no longer authentic.  Tuscan was “in”. Italian “regional”—code word for anything but the South—was the order of the day. And to a great extent, still is. You could eat in Italian restaurants in New York for ten years and never even see red sauce.  
 
We were almost made to feel bad about any secret appetites we might retain for spaghetti and meatballs—now that we knew they were  actually called polpetti, should be made much, much smaller, and were never ever ever to be served in the sauce with the pasta.
 
Guys like Pino Luongo and Mario Batali introduced us to a nearly red sauce-free world of infinite Italian variety and deliciousness and our first love, who, we were vaguely aware, had harkened (we had been told anyway) from Naples—was cruelly forgotten.
 
Not too many years ago, I married an Italian, and started spending a lot of time in Italy.  And in all my travels, I didn’t see anything resembling the “Italian” food I’d grown up with there either.  I started to wonder: This “Italian” food of Italian American New York and New Jersey that I’d grown up with…this cuisine , supposedly from the enchanted land called Naples…Did it even exist? Had it ever existed?  
 
My imaginings of the place were based, I realized, entirely on the ubiquitous idealized murals of Naples Bay on the wall of every restaurant and pizzeria from my childhood—and from the frankly, disparaging remarks of my friends from the Italian North—most of whom referred to Naples as somewhere slightly above Hell in the desirable places to go list—and as vaguely “not Italian”.
 
So, I thought, let’s go.
Let’s find out.  Let’s follow the red sauce trail right from the presumed “end” in New York’s Little Italy, all the way back to the “old country”. Let’s see what we find.  Let’s see where this whole “Sunday Gravy” came from—if it even did come from anywhere but Fort Lee  or the Lower East Side.
 
What I found, was surprising.
 
I will be shooting episodes of 24 Hour Layover during the airing of Monday’s premier.  (No Reservations episodes will resume shooting in September). I will, therefore, be unable to watch the show in real time, much less live tweet while doing so.
 
Thankfully—or regrettably (I’m not sure which yet), my wife, @Ottaviabourdain WILL be drunktweeting during the episode. She promises to knock back a bottle of lambrusco and do her best to embarrass me with behind the scenes notes and general observations. Though I dread the whole thing, I imagine it will be entertaining.  

CUBA, CUBA CUBA

Say what you want about Castro—(we CAN, after all, Cubans not so much)—he managed, through design or neglect, to keep Havana beautiful. Run down, crumbling, many buildings barely habitable—even the national baseball team has to play during the day because their stadium lights are broken and the country is too poor to fix them. Where things barely work, where time is arrested, where a failed ideology wheezes along on life support long after its inventors and sponsors abandoned it—at least, at least Havana is un-****ed by time. Where Moscow and St Petersburg brim with newly uglified buildings, malls, and the old cookie cutter concrete blocks leftover from the workers’ paradise, Havana looks like a shabbier but still gorgeous version of its older self. When it all changes, as it surely shall, I hope Havana’s waterfront, the malecon, the old hotels, the facades, the Nacional, the Tropicana, the cars—they remain—at least in appearance and design—the same. I’d hate to see fast food signs, the boutique hotels, bottle service, frat bars and canary yellow Lamborginis of the douche side of Miami. When everybody’s wired and connected and chatting freely, watching 500 channels of cable and voting their minds, I hope the mojitos don’t start coming in sno-cone form, the old neighborhoods dug up for golf courses or water parks.

It’s easy, I know, to over-romanticize the unspoiled. Especially when “unspoiled” means “poor”. But look. Look.

Whatever your politics, however you feel about Cuba—look at tonight’s show and admit, at least, that Havana is beautiful. It is the most beautiful city of Latin America or the Caribbean. Look at the Cuban people and admit that they are proud and big hearted and funny and kind—and strong as hell, having put up with every variety of bullshit over the years. On these things, I hope we can agree.