bourdain

damn! And I'm working tomite. How will I look my crew in the face? Better bring beer.

The original idea for Les Halles was to be a joint--modeled on the bistros described in Zola's THE BELLY OF PARIS--workingmans' places where meat cutters and market workers of Les Halles meat pavillion could drop by after work in their bloody aprons. The original menu was to be basically steak frites and tartare. And steak frites is far and away the best seller--the sheer volume of those sales allowing us to run a number of 50% food cost items like the terrine of foie gras (which is not on the menu but always available on request), cote de boeuf and "first of season" specials like softshells and white asparagus and truffle and cavaillon before the wholesale prices drop. You'll notice that the walls and ceilings at Les Halles have NEVER been painted (quite deliberately), that the furniture is butt-ugly--and that it looks like a hundred or more places in Paris. The French and Portugese owner--who spent a lot of time thinking about this--have neglected the decor in a very calculated way. A new faux-brasserie in NY was seen taking photos of our genuinely nicotine stained ceiling--so that they could reproduce the shade with India ink and tea in their own bogus boite. The menu at LH expanded away from bistro/boucherie to brasserie over time--with generations of French chefs and sous chefs..and you will notice that we NEVER..EVER close..that there is continued service from 12-12 every single day of every year. The whole choucroute/ Alsatian brasserie thing has been built up over time--and the joint employs a number of full-time butchers and an old-school French charcutier.

You scare me! You seem to have spent an awful lot of time designing--with astoundingly precise craftsmanship--a perfect vision of my personal hell. To choose between any of your options is to choose between death by bleeding rectal fistula or death by flesh eating fungus. The play list for Death By Lite FM ALONE was enough to make my hands tremble with fear. Brandy!! That Pina Colada song...Jesus! They should send you off to Gitmo to interrogate those Taliban types--you'd have them selling out their Moms within an hour! Awww..Now I've got that damn pina colada thing stuck in myfucking head!! Oh God...Make it stoppp!

Mexico. Of course. Did we lose?

I've had creme de menthe after dinner--but it's not my thing at all. Calvados please.

I have never regretted so deeply the buying of a garment. The item in question was cheap, Cambodian leisure wear--aquired in Phnom Penh, which I happened to be wearing (it's HOT in Cambodia) for a snapshot my friend and boss Philippe took. The masterminds at Bloomsbury thought it was cover material--and I was too cowed, too tired, too lazy--and too grateful to even be published to put up much of a fight. Of course I now have to look at myself looking like Rambo's crackhead brother in bookstores all over the world--and put up with a huge ration of shit every time my wife makes fun of me around the house--as in "Hey, Spambo---take out the garbage." And as far as Ladyboys--I'm guessing you're talking about the pre-ops so prominently for rent in much of SE Asia?

No shrieky-ass falsettoed big-haired rock anthem warbling motherfuckers in my kitchen. Dead Kennedys welcome anytime. I shudder to think what some of these mutts listen to in their kitchens. Jamie Oliver's musical tastes are well documented--he had an Abba Party the other night--with some "mates" dressed up like Abba. Here's something I never understood--as to me--Abba avec irony is just as awful as Abba without--and listening to Abba says the same thing about you it did twenty years ago--that you are deeply, deeply disturbed and a danger to yourself and others. The thought of Emeril--in his boxer shorts, busting a move in front of the mirror to ANY music is enough to make me want to shoot dope again--and I have a hard time picturing Bobby Flay listening to anything but Lite FM. Mario Batali, by the way--has excellent, far-reaching and varied tastes in music.--and can talk knowledgably about it. Scott Bryan likes Alice in Chains and Metallica--and Eric Ripert loves techno. Thomas Keller LOVES Little Green Bag by George Baker (from Res Dogs soundtrack). I've heard rumors that Martha Stewart likes Nine Inch Nails--and can make you a working bong from a tube of old toilet paper roll and a little foil. Good woman to have around in a pinch.

While I'm flattered you like my show, I am confused by your vindictive and deranged attack on Mr. Plotnicki--a man of strong views, surely--none of which seem--to my mind--out of place on a cheerfully anarchistic board like this one. I am sure I don't agree with Steve's every utterance--but I will certainly not be enlisted in some twisted, lonely quest to silence or punish the man. They yank posts over at the People's Republic of Chowhound--and the site suffers for it. Direct personal attacks, hyperbole, rants, insults sarcasm and invective are part of what make egullet such a spirited and enjoyable forum--particularly for professionals used to talking like that al the time. So, do your own dirty work--whether that's with scorchingly brilliant prose--unlikely given the evidence of it so far--or a blunt fucking object. I care not. Maybe if you get somebody I disagree with down on the mat, I can--when appropriate-- deliver a few swift kicks (as what better time to kick someone?)but in the meantime? Fuhgettabout. Adjust meds and move on.

I'm working on bringing him to Brazil for a show in the Fall or Winter.

Grind for consomme raft.

I know absolutely nothing about any regularly applied policy of service compris or 15% service charge at Les Halles. As far as I know--no such policy or statement on the bill, or menus, or anything else exists--except on special menus printed for private events. Service is in no way included in the price of meals at Les Halles-though it is-as I said--occasionally tacked on on the check for large parties, Brits, and others deemed likely to stiff the servers. This policy, I should point out, is widely adopted at restauarants all over NY when dealing with large--particularly European groups. In such cases that a party IS whacked for the additional 15% ,it is clearly itemized on the check. Those few times when--for instance-a new and greedy waiter chooses to allow a table to mistakenly double-tip, they are usually caught by the GM who makes appropriate moves to rectify the situation. I really have no idea about a 15% service charge built in to menu prices--especialy since I based my food cost percent on those menu prices--and can assure you, believe me--that there's no room for an adiitional slice for the waiters. In short, There is NO 15% service charge included in the prices at the Park Avenue store. I cannot speak for Downtown, DC or Miami as I have no involvement with those stores. I really can't imagine what menu you were looking at--or how this came to pass..the only scenario I can imagine is a party menu getting mixed up with the regular ones--but party menus are always unbound, white sheets of paper. If indeed you saw a Les Halles Park Avenue menu with mention of service being included in the prices I think it would be news to the floor staff. It's certainly news to me.

Cassoulet..or petit sale. Any seafood soup with pork--...choucroute...

I kinda like slicing garlic cloves paper thin--and chiffonading parsley. I don't generally cut my own shallots--but it feels good when the kid brings them over and I fill my cups. Love slicing the medallions of bone marrow fior bordelaise when needed.

cats Black Flag Vietnam Lowry fleur du sel vodka straight Ramones Napalm hot dog--no hamburger--no.. not spanking Stoli rich and miserable (I've been poor and happy--it's overrated) toro X surprisingly tough call--but anyone who says 'giving' is a stone liar

Oki Dog is said to be a favorite of Jonathan Gold's--and as I'd prided myself on sampling some of the extremes of Asia, I thought, "How bad can it be?" It's fusion of an interesting sort--in that--apparently, Mexican and Jewish immigrants once grew up in close proximity near Pico area--and the Oki Dog reflects a lingering love among Mexicans for pastrami. It was pretty horrible. As the LA Times rightly pointed out, I took some easy, cheap shots at LA. But that's what they're there for, isn't it? I wasn't there to shoot another episode of The Best Of.

Joey and Dee Dee--within a few months. It's horrible. Rock and roll in the kitchen? Sure. Necessary for prep--and post-work break-down. You'll notice a lot of overlap in the personnel between rock and rollers and cooks. I do have a few rules, though--when it comes to kitchen listening: NO Billy Joel NO Elton John NO Dave Matthews, Phish, Grateful Dead or hippie shit... Fans of the Dead Boys, Curtis Mayfield, Bootsie Collins, Parlaiment, Ramones, Snoop, Clash, Voidoids, Johnny Thunders, Hole, Chili Peppers, Modern Lovers, Cramps, Elvis Costello, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi, Stooges, early pre-punk, Mersey Beat, NY or London Punk, pre-disco funk, early Roxy (okay, I'm a sap), Jorge Ben, Gato Barbieri, the Apocalypse Now or Reservoir Dogs or any Sergio Leone soundtrack and the Pistols song, Bodies-will enjoy favored nation status and rapid promotion. Soca salsa, mariachi, tropicale, reggae, zouk, dub, dance-hall all welcome. Fans of Billy Joel will be terminated immediately.

I'm planning on running away for over two months of incommunicado relaxation to do jack-shit beyond catching up on my reading and hanging out with my wife. I intend to eat NO meal where the establishment requires footwear of ANY kind--(to include sandals). I plan to risk skin cancer by exposing myself to the sun without benefit of protection..sun stroke by drinking heavily in direct sunlight...and future penury by ignoring all offers of work or publicity. (Just turned down a major pharma today who wanted me to hawk pain-killers and stomach medicine for travellers). When I get back--I guess I'll continue milking this writer/TV shit for as long as they let me. Things go sour I can always go back to steak frites.

Psychoanalysis and food? No opinion. Fries? GPOD '70 count potatoes. Cut on a baron--battonet cut. BLANCHE first in 300 degree oil. Lay out on towel on sheet pan to cool and drain..Finish in 375 degree oil. Toss imediately in regular table salt. Lotus root chips. No idea. Not my thing.

Cravings--where I am suddenly visited by a consuming need for a particular food item: Unagi....Barney Greengrass's chopped liver..Focaccio pizza with robiola cheese and white truffle oil...a REAL Italian hero, dripping with oil and vinegar...a bleeding, greasy cheeseburger at Corner Bistro....chorizo sausage...fettucine Alfredo..Stilton cheese..fried smelts in persillade..oysters..vacherin smeared on a fresh baguette...iced vodka shots with a few fish eggs...a properly made grilled cheese sandwich..an end cut from a prime rib roast..tamales from the Mexican lady who sells them to my cooks from a plastic cooler on Satrudays..the little fried crabs (sawagani) at Sushi Samba--washed down with capharenas...toasted bialey dripping with butter...cold meat loaf sandwich (only MY meat loaf, though) with homemade mayo and lettuce on country bread.....portugese squid stew...steamer clams... Horrible Guilty Pleasures About Which I Feel Immediate Regret: Italian sweet sausage and peppers at street fairs. God help me. Dirty water hot dogs. Leftover pork fried rice from a generic Chinese restaurant And please forgive me--I'm so ashamed--those hideous honey BBQ wings at the colonel--when I'm stoned in front of the tube. Cap'n Crunch (especially when they cut my mouth and the milk turns pink)

Vietnamese food is fantastic--and there are, I know, plenty of good Vietnamese restaurants in the US. I've eaten at two--one in Minneapolis, and one in Houston--that were nearly identical to meals I had in Vietnam. But I want to see Vietnam out the window when I eat Vietnamese. I want to smell Vietnam. I want to see women in their ao dais scooting past on their motorbikes, smell durian and fish sauce--look around and see Vietnamese families tearing at their food, smoking 555 cigarettes between courses. It's so much part of the experience. I'm less picky about Japanese--which has been transported fairly well in certain cases in NY for instance--where large numbers of Japanese business people demand that everything be just so--but it just ain't the same is it? So I generally eat what's good--where it's good--whenever possible. Good food of almost every nationality is eadily available where I live--and I partake happily. But I'm not looking for magic when I do. When I find it--like at Salumi in Seattle (real Italian!) I am overjoyed.

India is too big a subject. Too intimidating in its greatness--like China, France and Italy--(none of which I really covered). Smarter, better writers than me have said a lot on the subject--so I felt those countries off limits as places where enthusiasm and romantic delusions alone might be able to carry me through. Love the food. Just don't want to do the Burt Wolf thing. Fact is, I chose a lot of the places I went cause they looked cool in movies--or I had some tangible or infantile preconception/connection to the place.

..and Beard House? Never.

I like Blue Ribbon--particularly the bakery (which serves bone marow). But it's really busy--and not as much a chef hang out as it used to be. APT is okay for after work drinks. Double Happiness...The ceviche bar at Chicama just before closing...The sake place downstairs--across the street from Yasuda. My after work, late night haunt remains Siberia Bar. If we think we'll need food, somebody'll bring some.

I'm not going anywhere near this question.

To eat? Roasted bone marrow with sea salt and toast at St. John--with fresh toro tuna sushi--in season--right behind. To cook? Probably Daube of Beef Provencale..or Braised Short Ribs--though I do love making a simple Spaghetti a la Chitarra with Pommodoro. For some reason it makes me happy--particularly when I add that finishing shot of olive oil at the end and the pasta sucks up the last of the sauce and sits up pretty on the plate. White truffle risotto is fun--and is always a crowd pleaser. If I'm looking to cause oohs and ahhs and moans of pleasure--without working up too much of a sweat in the kitchen--that's a lay-up.