bourdain

It does. BTW ..And the new Adria book (weighing in at over 4 kilos--without recipes) , resembling the obelisk from 2001--including seperate guide/flow chart and CDRom (with recipes) is...well..it's..it's amazing.

And to their credit--FN DID, in fact, air every episode of Cooks Tour--with very minimal requested edits. The infamous"pig episode" to air again on Dec. 6th. (did you really expect--or want--to see the actual stabbing and fisting?) We just finished shooting four new episodes: Saint Martin, Rio, Salvador(Bahia), and New Orleans--with more to come(?).

Also: San Diego's STAR BAR. New Orlean's CIRCLE BAR--my God--they played non-stop Richard Hell for 45 minutes!! Great! And in the down-memory-lane department--the pre-Guliani Billy's Topless: bruised, heavily tattooed strippers, waddling through lackluster moves to Bon Jovi on the juke, embittered bartenders, no cover, septic bathrooms--all the elements of a great dive. And lest we forget: Simon's sanctum sanctorum in London: The Wenlock Arms--as fine a drinking establishment as any on earth--and quickly becoming the New Algonquin of 21st Century Brit-Wits. I believe there's a comprehensive collection of Focus bootlegs on the juke to calm Simon down when they cut him off at the bar.

"A Return To Cooking" by Eric Ripert and Michael Ruhlman

Great Dive Bars of the Past: Lady Anne's Full Moon Saloon on 8th Avenue in NYC. Warm beer, slack-breasted bar-hags, beat coke and pool-playing pimps--and Merle Haggard on the juke. Time Out's bar reporter said: "The worst bar I have EVER been in--and I've been to Albania!" The Edelweiss: Towering transvestite hustlers, and German decor. Under the Market Diner--frequently closed for morals violations. The Terminal Bar: Across from the old Port Authority--daytime drinkers with towels wrapped around their wrists to guide their morning shots to their mouths without spilling. Current Non-NY favoritesFavorites: 1) Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge, New Orleans. God, I love this place. Dark, skanky, Christmas motif, and naked people drink for free. 2) Checkpoint Charlie's, New Orleans. Get hammered while the blood and hair from last night are washed in the convenient in-house laundromat! 3) The Highlander, Atlanta. And there's a great dive in Oakland--was it the Dahlia? with a dark, smoke friendly ambiance and an all-metal jukebox. Anybody know the place? I want t go back.

I second the Malmaison and Heathcotes suggestions.

Thanks. Yeah--I'm definitely doing Tempero da Dada--I've been to Soriso da Dada on a previous trip. Great. I see that armed drug gangs are storming the prison and attacking the governor's residence in Rio--and generally behaving as a law unto themselves (they shut down the whole city a few weeks ago). Should be video Gold! Thanks for the tips all.

In defense of Charlie..He's not the most outgoing guy in the world--bordering on shy. He is also not the sort of guy to knowingly give somebody the cold shoulder. A lot on his plate, I'm guessing. At least he didn't snarl. At least he was THERE the night you were--an increasingly rare phenomenon in famous chef kitchens these days..I wouldn't take it personally, man. It's all about the food anyway. Isn't it?

Great pictures--they make me homesick. Nice to see those adorabl;e scamps Christian and Malachi are still on the job--and talking about fast cars. I guess I have to check out the sorbets. And my pal Ras-Bushman..I know just what he's saying: "Bless!"

Wilfred: I await a full report on Rio with baited breath. I'm headed there Saturday to be followed by Salvador. Suggestions would be most welcome.

You're kidding, right?

Frightening and largely true stuff. I've been on a personal quest for a catch-phrase for some time--without success. "Let's Puke It Up A Notch," didn't resonate with focus groups. The personal editor--called "so and so's voice" however, sounds like a delightful idea. I'd never have to get out of bed--and could smoke all the weed I wanted. Where might I find this remarkably talented individual--and is he available weekends? Whoops! Gotta run--I'm late for an appointment with my voice coach/aromatherapist.

I would greatly appreciate a quick bio/ resume (what do you call that over there--a Q something?) of Raymond Blanc and a brief capsule history of Le Manoir. For purposes of personal enterprise. I know the man and the place by reputation, of course, but a brief geneology tracing back career would be enormously helpful. Thanks in advance.

Followed by some drinks and some bbq rabbit out the back of a truck at Vaughn's in the 9th Ward,(Thursday nights--when Kermit is playing/cooking) followed by drinks at the best bar in the South--Snake and Jakes Christmas Club Lounge, followed by a delivery sandwich and a bottle of bourbon from the Verdi Mart, followed by coffee at the Hummingbird followed by a Sno-Ball at Hansen's followed by a long stint at Betty Ford. New Orleans is cool. Avoid the Quarter.

Just jesting? No. But I suggest that my comments were as ill-informed, as hyperbolic, and as heartfelt as just about everything else I've ever written or said--which is to say--all of the above. I am not afraid to be contradicted, nor proven wrong--in fact it is one one of my principle pleasures--particularly when a Majumdar is doing the contradicting. To lecture a Brit--especially sharp-tongued, opinionated--and far more experienced at Brit-chow specimens like the Glimmer Twins is to stick one's paw directly into the rabid wolverine's cage. I fully expected to get chomped. But I still think many UK egulleteers and foodies (in general) are too quick to do MPW and GR a disservice by dismissing them so readily. Theirs are careers (as Simon readily admits) of considerable accomplishments. (That MPW has never even been to France is alone--remarkable) Whether my take on the issue is delusional is certainly open to question. I look forward to further debate face to face with the aforementioned brothers after GR opens in New York. As to how ill-informed I am about UK kitchens--I refer you to the earlier debate on whether the chef "should" be in his kitchen at all times--and whether it makes a difference in food quality--a document of at-times amazing naivete so disconnected from the reality as to suggest widespread glue-sniffing. I happen to believe that London--in particular--is one of the most exciting and interesting cities to eat in the world--and in the midst of a whirlwind of both triumphs and growing pains of professional cooking. If I bridle at the Majumdar's occasional scorn for your home-town heavy-hitters--and find both MPW and GR gentleman of substance-then just wrap me in the Union Jack, feed me a fucking pint or two--and kick my sorry Yank arse down a flight of stairs. Simon certainly would not hesitate to do so. (If he could reach my arse). ...semper fi, bro'.

"So presumably you just believe thay should keep quiet about it because you happen to admire Ramsay. Strange " Good Lord, no! That would deprive me of the pleasure of listening to them (and agreeing or disagreeing). The Majumdars every utterances are always worth close consideration and scrutiny--even when they're playing air guitar and yodelling along with Hocus Pocus on the Wenlock bar. My comment was inspired as much by their apparently instinctive distaste for all things MPW or GH--as by the physical transformation that comes over the two at the very mention of their names: Their eyes bulge from their skulls, mouths twist into expressions of rage and the tiny vein over Simon's left eye begins to leap and throb uncontrollably--this is usually followed by threats of violence and a calypso rendering of Stairway To Heaven. It ain't pretty--believe me. I suggest only that when overcome by these alcohol fueled episodes of aggression--that their energies might be better directed at that winsome, Flubber-lipped Sainsbury's flack who so stains the honor of their great nation. Certainly, my own critical judgement is tainted by my association with my fellow band-mate, Freemason and Tri-Lateral Commission member, Ramsay( our medley of Hermans Hermits hits at CBGB got raves) --and (in MPW's case) a preexisting appreciation of Isaac Hayes' work as a dramatic actor (Truck Turner, Escape From New York)--but I think benefit of the doubt in GR's case--and an acknowledgement that maybe MPW has done his part--and maybe deserves a little slack if he wants to spend the rest of his life making real estate deals and shooting birdies is appropriate. Majumdars quiet?--about Anything? The silence would be awful--and the world would be a lesser, less interesting place. Ahhh..fuck it. They should go ahead and trash who they choose. I enjoy this.

Ahhh; you Brits...Why do you insist on eating your young with such tedious regularity? A nice local boy from a working class background brings home three stars for the home team and you line up to piss on him. Rising beyond one's station continues to grate--even a couple of lovable yobs like the Majumdar boys turn up their noses at the impolitic Mr. Ramsay and the even-more-unbearable (to them) Marco. Those two put your once much maligned isle on the culinary map. All over the world I meet young chefs who came out of their kitchens--and owe their success and their skills (by their own admission) to one or both. (Mario Batali--arguably--being one example). Hospital Road is a great restaurant. Claridges--for a hotel--is at the very least--undeserving of such venomous contempt. (One would think that finding oneself in agreement with Michael Winner on anything would be reason enough to reexamine one's position.) That you anticipate disappointment at the Connaught--before nibbling so much as a breadstick suggests a suffocating snobbery at odds with the pure pursuit of pleasure. Some jumped up wine waiter looks at you mugs cross-eyed and you're ready to firebomb both place and all associated with it. And Marco may be a huntin's and pimpin' Mac-Daddy in a wide brim hat now--but he paid his fuckin' dues. See you at the Wenlock where we can continue this discussion in an environment more conducive to me pummeling you about the head and neck.

Simon: Your rant anticipates an imminent Esquire column. Just so you know. See you at the Connaught launch?

Rachel: I don't have a spare map--but they are available everywhere on the island--at bars, restaurants, in hotel and time share rooms. Kskis: Oyster Pond Hotel was once the most lovely twenty room Spanish style getaway on the most beautiful, remore lagoon on the island. It is now a gigantic, constantly under-construction Radisson that nearly blots out the sun with its size and ugliness. It looks like Leavenworth. Dawn Beach Hotel was destroyed by Hurricane Luis. The beach is nice--though crowded--and the area surrounding the lagoon has been similarly built up. If you have to stay in the area, I suggest looking for food--and beaches-elsewhere. Particularly in the terre basse(lowlands) on the other side of the island. A scenic and not too long drive. (I used to do it every day by scooter). For Hotels--La Samanna is far and away the best.Worth every dime--and full, attentive service and a fantastic beach--the kind you expect of the West Indies but seldom find. For les expensive, but quaint, cozy and local feling--you might consider the smaller places in the town of Grand Case. You WILL need a car rental--and it should be a 4X4. And drive defensively.

Michel Royer closed his doors for good--after only a brief run. Investor problems say locals. By the way--IF indeed--you are staying near the Oyster Pond (now called, oddly, Oyster Bay?), I can recommend Happy Hour at the Dinghy Dock on Capt. Oliver's Marina (that's NOT Cap'n Olivers Restaurant--its a separate little joint that feeds liquor and decent chow to local yachties and sailors). Dollar-pour-your-own-drinks. Be sure to say hello to the two Ryans for me. If you want to know what's going on on the island while youre there you can compare the unofficial government apologist organ, the Herald--or the more lively opposition TODAY. The letters columns are priceless. Also. I had the pleasure of eating lunch at (remember this is ME speaking) vegetarian joint run by Ras Bushaman--the Freedom Fighters Ital Shack on the Bush Road diagonally across from the Herald. It's the grimy fence with the murals. Tell Ras Bushman I sent you. His "herb" iced tea and tamarind juice is great--everything is grown on premises, and its an unforgettable experience. If you have trouble finding it--just call Laser 101 (101.1 on your local FM dial) betwen 6-10AM M-F) and ask the host, Bulldog for directions. DO NOT MISS THIS. And tell Ras Bushman, Tony says "Bless." You might need a designated driver getting home.

After extensive field research, I have found that the best cure for a hangover is the following: First, a glass of still fizzing Brioschi--or failing that--a cold Coke. This to be immediately followed by a joint of the strongest hydro-weed you can muster. Once the urge to cough up one's liver and lights has subsided--and (thanks to the smoke) the crimes and humiliations--not to mention residual nausea and guilt---of the night before have faded to an ugly but hazy memory--one should have a few bites of leftover kung pao chicken, still cold from the carton. Follow this by a few hours in the prone position, watching the most undemanding television you can. Obviously, the films Under The Volcano--or Lost Weekend or Days of Wine and Roses is out. CourtTV is good--because you can always see people in worse, more hopeless situations than you find yourself. If in New Orleans--and CourtTV is unavailable--eat breakfast at the Hummingbird Grill. You'll be amazed how bright things look after.

To clarify: Yes. I personally was tormented by multiple, often sequential, physically exhausting dreams on Larium. I would wake up gasping for air, trying to scream. my whole body sore from exertions of my dream self (struggling to avoid rows of hoe and flail wielding Khmer Rouge, for instance--or trying to dig myself out of a dream hole--if I was using my arms in the dream--I'd wake up with sore arms), full flop sweat, hyperventilating. I'd smoke a butt, wait a reasonable period, then fall back asleep and the dreams would continue where I'd left them the plot picking up as if never interrupted. This would go on all night. While I was perfectly willing to believe this was attributable to my own twisted psyche, every expat I met in Cambodia would just smile, shake their heads and say "Larium. Bad shit.--Don't take it any more" Given that so many expats in Phnom Penh are "comfortable" with a full spectrum of psychoactive drugs--I found their wariness and contempt for Larium signifigant.

No.

I strongly recommend against Larium. The side effects are truly disturbing. Hunter Thompson's musings on a near lethal combo of ether/bad mescaline/cocaine and booze come to mind: Something about "looking down and seeing your dead grandmother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth" Typical Larium dream. People on the crew travelling with me had even more unpleasant reactions. One claims to have lost all sense of taste and smell for months following the course of the drug. I stopped taking them in Cambodia--as I was quickly becoming too terrified to sleep--knowing the kind of physically affecting dreams I was likely to have. Malaria is indeed serious, lifelong business--and it is probably a good idea to take a prophylactic if travelling in areas where malaria is not uncommon. But no kidding about the psychotic behavior. If you've been following news accounts of the rash of Special Forces related murders at a US base--you'll see that a Larium connection was one of the first things investigated as a possible cause. (Though since discounted). If you've ever had a sudden urge to shave your head, climb a tower and start shooting strangers--or have been hearing voices lately--or think CarrotTop is funny--then Larium is definitely not for you. Stick with the thorazine.

JAYMES--My scorn was directed entirely at Hilton, Radisson, Sheraton and similar institutions--and the whole idea of staying in them--not at you personally. (If "your" waiter AT the Hilton is talking to "you"--"you" must, presumably BE AT the Hilton--was the conceit). In fact I have no idea that you personally ever stayed in those hideous, generic, air-conditioned necropolae--and from your entirely reasonable reply--you rarely do. In fact--you sound like you travel like a champion.So feel free to tell me to go piss up a rope for my inexactitude. I am a known repeat offender in this area..I was, not unusually for me--whipped into a frenzy by the very thought of avoiding food stalls--and tormented by the grim memories of way too many hungover mornings in the mass-feeding breakfast pens of chain hotels..waking up in faraway places with no idea where I am--so confused by the cookie-cutter architecture, the climate control, the terrible sameness, the hordes of defeated, unhappy looking business travellers and package tourists lind up for their cold croissants and watery eggs, that I sit there, grinding my teeth and hating the world. Another--more positive suggestion-might be, when one finds oneself abroad--particularly in the East, is to find the seediest expat watering hole--particularly hang-outs for foreign press-, English teachers, NGOs-where local ( indigenous)journos and long time expat residents hang out and mix. There's always somebody, I found, who can point you in the direction of a local gourmand. For some reasons, the French, having been terrible colonisers, often make superb travellers and expats, blending right in nicely. So maybe bring some smelly cheese. Again, apologies for appearing to suggest that you personally have seen the world only through the smoked glass windows of a passing tour bus (as so many--tragically have). Twas not my intention nor my asumption. Hyperbole? Moi?