My on-camera subjects were equally disastrous. In Trepani, at the salt flats, the only drama was whether my dining companion would die of old age before the scene was over. He could barely eat without drooling, and appeared ready to nod off halfway through. The "adorable squid fisherman's family" with whom I was to share my "catch" of the night before in a "rustic, home-cooked Sicilian meal" hated my guts on sight. We were two hours late (after waiting futilely for the turtles) and they just sat there throughout the meal, glaring at me.

All these disasters left our increasingly desperate shooters with no alternative but to try and squeeze entertainment out of my every embittered, drunken utterance, my every nap, walk, and private moment: "C'mon, Tony! This is a scene! The 'I'm stuck in the airport and can't find the bathroom' scene! It's comedy gold!"

Sicily was stunningly beautiful. But as is becoming a recurring theme in my life, so much useless beauty unspooled in front of my eyes like a half-observed, half-felt movie. Just out of reach. Can't stop. No time to really look or breathe it in. Pantelleria, a tiny volcanic island off the coast of Tunisia: black lava petrified mid-flow into wild, jagged, majestic shapes; crystal-blue sea; green vineyards; olive trees; my house a thousand-year-old Arab-style damoussa with white-domed roof; the sirocco from Africa blowing constantly but gently. You can smell the continent, the spices, feel the Sahara in the aira"and I was off all day making f.u.c.king television.

Yet, I learned something important about myself in Sicily. (And I'm not being melodramatic here. Really . . . Okay, maybe I am.) One afternoon, Dario, the useless "fixer," took us for an impromptu cruise on his yacht. It was intended as a quick subst.i.tute scene to make up for the ultralight that couldn't land. ("Too much-a wind. Sea. She is . . .too rough.") Try to visualize it in Antonioni black-and-white: Dario and his bored aristo friends and their mistressesa"all in their tiny little bathing suits and wraparound sungla.s.sesa"and me and my Ugly American crew, at sea on a seventy-two-footer, sails up. Islands in the distance, a clear day. A few miles out, Dario gestures to the high, sheer cliff face on the sh.o.r.e of a nearby island, a magnificent edifice where waves pound against rock and coral.

"I jump from that cliff all the time," he says, pointing at a hundred-fifty-foot climb straight up, with a vertical drop between reef and rocks. "When-a you go up . . . there's no way down but to jump," he says. And then he dares me, dares me, to do it with him.

Now . . . you know me. There's no way I'm gonna let this c.o.c.ksucker get away with this. Especially as I'm cranky, not a little bit drunk, and by now in the mood to squeeze his neck until his eyes pop out of their sockets. I figure it's worth it, if only for the possibility that I'll get to see him split his pointy f.u.c.king head open on a rock. Plus, we're desperate for a scene for the show, and I figure the "Tony Foolishly Breaks His Spine" scene will definitely spell Emmy Awarda"for somebody. So I hear myself saying, "I'll do it."

We take dinghies over to the cliffs. Dario shows me where we have to get off and where to climb. Todd takes a camera position on a reef opposite. Tracey, who'll be shooting the jump from a dinghy, is weeping behind the lens as they ferry us over. "Are you sure you want to do this, Tony?" She knows I'm on beer number eight. And that cliff, the closer we get, is looking higher and higher. I'm not making things easier with my drunken bravado, jokingly babbling good-byes to any and all whom I've ever loved, or who have loved me. (Just in case.) This makes her cry more.

We clamber off the dinghy and Dario leads me slowly and precariously straight up the crumbly limestone cliff, both of us free-climbing in bare feet, picking our way up with fingertips and toes, hanging and traversing along crevices and not, repeat not, looking down. After about half an hour of climbing, and a few hairy moments, we reach the top. Dario slides into position for his jump, clinging to a slight hump behind him with both hands, his weight supported by a tiny, brittle-looking protrusion the size of a large bar of soap.

It's a straight drop down, he says. Between that rock there . . . and that shallow reef . . . there. Make sure to keep your arms tightly at your sides or you'll break them when you hit the water.

"I know you gonna wanna flap your arms. Everybody does," he says. "But don't. Really."

I'm perched above him, as there's only room on the jump position for one at a time. And let me tell you: One hundred fifty feet looks a lot higher off the ground looking down than it does looking up. I can't even really see where I'm supposed to land through the white water and the waves below.

Dario starts to push off.

And freezes.

He leans back against the rock and says, "I have to think about this . . ."

A moment later, he starts to push off again.

And then freezes again. He leans back, says, "Turn the cameras off"a"as if they can hear us all the way down there. "I'm not-a ready. I have to think. It's been a long time since I done this ..."

Now, I'm not feeling too good about this near-suicidal enterprise myself at this point. Here I am, clinging to a rock high above the sea, and the formerly confident Count Dips.h.i.t is going wobbly on me. And that narrow s.p.a.ce between rocks is looking narrower and narrower. Tracey, in the dinghy below, looks like a toy bobbing about in a faraway bathtub.

I remind Dario what he told me: that there's no other way down. And I suggest that given his lack of success so far with aerial conveyances, signaling for a chopper is not a viable option.

After yet another aborted attempt, his feet trembling spasti-cally now, I revert to schoolyard persuasion and tell him we'll look like f.u.c.king p.u.s.s.ies if he doesn't get his s.h.i.t together and f.u.c.king take the f.u.c.king leap. I have to admit, I'm more than anxious to see him jump. If only to see if, once he does, his head reappearsa"and I therefore have a shot at surviving this lunacy.

Finally he goes. First straight out, then a straight drop. And then, a few long seconds later, BOOM!

A few more seconds and I see his head resurface, and he's swimming for the dinghy.

I slide down into position.

I do not want to spend any time thinking about what I'm about to do.

One more look down. Two seconds. Dario still in the water . . .

And, G.o.d help me, I push myself straight out into blue sky and drop, drop down toward blue and white water.

And you know what surprised me? While airborne, as I flew out, and then plummeted down toward rocks and sea?

I didn't care.

I was not afraid.

I've known love.

I've seen many beautiful things.

And it was enough.

That was what I was thinking. Stone cold. Serene. Yet . . . happy, as I dropped, and the water rushed up to meet me at sixty miles per hour.

Needless to say, I survived the experience. It's h.e.l.l on the soles of your feet hitting the water at that speed. But jumping into the void made for an illuminating few seconds.

And we got the shot.

ADRINKING PROBLEM.

there are few articles of faith in my admittedly jaundiced worldview, precious few things that I believe to be right and true and basically unimprovable by man or G.o.d. This, however, is one of them: a properly poured beer or alea"in my case, a hand-cranked Guinnessa"in a clean pint gla.s.s of correct temperature is G.o.d's Own Beverage, a complete and nutritious food source, a thing of beauty to be admired, a force that sweeps away, for a time, all the world's troubles.

One does not drink Guinness in a vacuum-sealed pod. Context is important. The best place to fully appreciate the state of enlightenment that comes with a fine English, Scottish, or Irish beverage is, of course, that all-important inst.i.tution, the pub.

So I am contentedly watching the foam settle in my gla.s.s at the Festering Ferret in London's East End, momentarily at peace with the world, contemplating life's mysteries, planning future good works. I'm smoking, admiring the cracked leather seats, the moldering century-old carpet, the box-shaped, nearly toothless, geriatric bartender. I'm running my hand over my worn wood table as if it were the Rosetta stone, deciphering with my fingertips the cryptic, possibly pre-Druidic messages inscribed therea""Stiv is a c.u.n.t," "Bay City Rollers," "Jamie is a mockney s.h.i.te"a"their echoes resonating through the ages, connecting me with poets and thinkers of another age.

A waiter approaches, draws my attention to a blackboard on the wall, and says, "Would you care for something to eat, sir? The os...o...b..co of Chilean sea ba.s.s is particularly good today." I look up with horror. There, just to the right of a well-punctured dartboard, is a portent of True Horror. A real menu! I read it with growing apprehension and dismay, an icy tendril of fear probing my gut: "Soup of fresh green peas with chiffonade of crisp prosciutto and pumpkin froth"; "Tartelette of foie gras with apricot chutney and house-made brioche"; "Cruelty-free noisette of pork with snow peas and caramelised shallots."

Even worse, there is an entire vegetarian section, segregated to the left side of the board. Just before I collapse, shaking, to the beer-sodden floor, I read in the dessert section: "Green apple sorbet with wasabi." Then everything goes black.

The next thing I am aware of is my fingers being pried from the fleshy folds of the bar hag's throat. A large fellow in a chef's coat and ap.r.o.n is doing the prying. A well-scrubbed young commis is a.s.sisting by beating me about the head and neck with a saucepot. (Copper, I notice, and well maintained at that.) Through broken teeth and a foam of b.l.o.o.d.y spittle, I manage to splutter, "What? When? How? Why?" before breaking down into convulsive sobs: "Oh G.o.d! Oh Jesus! It's awful! The end is here! It's over! My life is over!" As I release my grip, the bald fellow explains, while keeping a knee on my thorax, "We're a gastro-pub now. Can I fix you up with some tofu and wild mushroom beignets? They're lovely." Which is when I make a futile grab for the nearest blunt object and the commis lets me have it with the saucepot.

Gastro-pub? What the f.u.c.k is that? For me, fancy food in a traditional old pub is about as inviting as the phrases "Hot male-on-male action" or "Tonight! Billy Joel live!" or "Free prostate exam with every drink." A good pub should never have fine food. What's wrong with a good meat pie? Black pudding? Sausages? Shepherd's pie is a beautiful thing. I don't want truffles in it! And a vegetarian menu? In a pub? Vegetarians in a pub? For their own good, vegetarians should never be allowed near fine beers and ales. It will only make them loud and ADRINKING PROBLEM.

belligerent, and they lack the physical strength and aggressive nature to back up any drunken a.s.sertions.

The British pub is one of the last great bastions of goodness, civility, and decency in the world. Who wants annoying foodies in their local? They'll infest the place. They'll multiply like c.o.c.kroaches. Soon, a sip will barely have pa.s.sed your lips before you overhear, "Have you tried the salmon confit with tomato water? It's fabulous!" or "I'd like the basil gelato, please."

There'll be no place to run then, friends, and no place to hide. The-enemy might as well be camped in your sitting room, b.u.g.g.e.ring your pooch, biting the heads off your budgies, and playing Kylie CDs at ear-splitting volume. Good beer and fancy food should be kept separate. A firewall between them, like church and state. That wall crumbles and all will be chaos.

WOODYHARRELSON: CULINARY MUSE.

they call us "cooks." And wea"meaning everyone who's ever shaken a pan or dunked a spud in a professional kitchena"can trace our proud lineage directly back to our apelike predecessors, cl.u.s.tered around a fire, searing hunks of flesh over the flame. In Roman times, we were slaves (pampered ones, yes, but slaves just the same). In Ottoman times we were janissaries. Later we toiled in the kitchens of cruel and capricious monarchs, sweated in the cellars of grand hotels, bounced from restaurant to restaurant. Those in our clan prepare pho in makeshift food stalls at night markets, peel chicken from the bone to roll in freshly fried tortillas in mercados, flip eggs behind lunch counters. Through guile and persistence and desperation, using the knowledge pa.s.sed down to us by those who came before, we turn tough, unlovely bits of meat and sc.r.a.p, produce and legume, into beloved national dishes. This thing of ours was always about transformation, about the strategic application of heat to make what was available somehow better.

But some would have us believe that the flames around which we have gathered since the beginning of our species do not make things better. They make them worse. Less healthy. Impure. More likely to cause "mucus" (a bad thing), toxins, lowered enzymesa"and generally diminished grooviness. According to some extreme pract.i.tioners, if cooked fooda"or animal flesh of any kinda"finds its way into our mouth, it should be followed by fasting, and a thorough colon-cleansing.

Advocates and pract.i.tioners of "raw food" eschew all meat, poultry, fish, dairy, refined or processed staples (like flour and sugar), and anything cooked, preferring only those remaining foods that are still raw or "living." Until recently, they have been viewed as a lunatic fringe, espousing a philosophy so extreme and ascetic as to make ordinary vegans look like pleasure-seeking libertines. One typical work on the subject, Victoria Boutenko's tellingly t.i.tled 12 Steps to Raw Foods: How to End Your Addiction to Cooked Food, a.s.sures us that "because cooked food does not have enzymes, our body cannot use it. Therefore the body treats cooked food as a toxin and is only concerned with getting rid of it." Who knew? I always thought my body treated food as a pleasure. Strangely, Ms. Boutenko later claims that "our body never makes mistakes. We all know what we need if we listen to our body." I can only imagine that if I hear my body calling out for a cheeseburger, signals have somehow been crossed. (Apparently what it really wants is a Boutenko patty of ground and processed nuts, carrots, onion, yeast, and banana, thickened with dried herb, yeast, psyllium husk powder, and ground flaxseeds.) Fortunately for most, the literature on raw food has provided unpersuasive visuals: The cover photo of Boutenko's manifesto displays a truly hideous spread of such unappetizing, clumsy b.u.t.t-ugliness as to frighten away any but the most fervently devoted; it looks as if some fifties-era Betty Crocker got t.i.tani-cally drunk and decided to lay out a buffet for the Symbionese Liberation Army. A starved Weimaraner would turn its nose up at such appalling fare.

Unfortunately, things have changed.

Raw food has gone legit.

Charlie Trotter is probably the nation's most internationally celebrated chefa"an artist, an intellectual, and the author of some truly groundbreaking and beautiful cookbooks. His eponymous restaurant in Chicago is one of the country's best. Roxanne Klein is a veteran of many fine kitchens, the chef/owner of Roxanne's in Larkspur, California. She is, perhaps, the leading innovator and proponent of "raw food." Last year, the two collaborated on Raw (Ten Speed Press), a real "cookbook" in which absolutely nothing is cooked. It's imaginative, pretty to look at, and (largely because of Trotter's preeminence) a direct poke in the eye of the entire culinary profession.

Raw represents a radical (yet aesthetically compelling) abrogation of the basic principle that "cooks" presumably cook. The stove, the oven, the open can of propane, the roadside grill, the barbecue pit, the hearth are where food is made. Right? The place of heat is where cooks and eaters congregate, will always congregate, to share food and stories. Thus it has always been. Thus it will always be.

Maybe not.

Trotter has served a vegetable tasting menu for some time. Noticing that most restaurants tended to cobble together a plate full of side dishes and odds and ends when confronted with vegetarian customers, he rose to the challenge and raised the bar significantly for others inclined to improve their own veggie offerings. Charlie Trotter likes vegetables. He understands them. Though he surely knew that many of his vegetable offerings would taste a lot better married to a fat lardon of bacon, or tossed in duck fat, like most great chefs through history he made the very best of limited options.

In his introduction to Raw, he is careful to distinguish between the role of chef/seeker and that of advocate for some health-conscious agrarian future. He seems to be saying that raw food can be a cool thinga"but it's not necessarily the only thing. One gets the impression he is attracted more to the challenge than any underlying philosophy. Commendably, Klein urges similar caution, saying, "I think it's presumptuous for anyone to tell others how they should live their lives."

Nice words. Nice book. Without question, it's an answered prayer for anyone whom religion or personal circ.u.mstances has pushed into veganism.

My prejudices against vegetarianism and veganism are well known and deeply held, but looking at the gorgeous pictures, I thought surely any exploration of ways to make fooda"any fooda"better is a positive thing. As intellectual exercise, as gastronomy, as "another path," this weird corner of the culinary spectrum might, I thought, be as worthy of respect as any other.

Then I read the opening anecdote of Klein's introduction, an account of the inspiring moment that led to her immersion into the mysteries of raw food. She describes a fateful meeting in Thailand with former Cheers star and hemp activist Woody Harrelson.

"Every evening, our group would sit down to a fantastic feast of Thai vegetarian curries, noodles, and rice dishes. Woody, however, would always order a bowl of fruit or a green papaya salad. We tried to get him to sample the wonderful cooked dishes we were eating, but be always declined [italics mine]. After more prodding, he explained the reasons why he maintained a diet of raw fruits and vegetables. Michael [Klein's husband] and I found the philosophy interesting and decided to delve more deeply into it."

This story is horrifying on so many levels that my enzyme-starved, toxin-laden, mucus-clogged body shook when I read it.

First of all, why would anyone listen to Woody Harrelson about anything more important than how to be a working Hollywood actor or how to make a bong out of a toilet-paper roll and tinfoil?

And who would listen to anyone who can visit Thailanda"a country with one of the most vibrant, varied, exciting culinary cultures on the planet (including a rich tradition of tasty vegetarian fare)a"and refuse to sample its proudly served and absolutely incredible bounty? What kind of cramped, narrow, and arrogant worldview could excuse shutting oneself off totally from the greater part of an ancient and beautiful culture?

To my mind, there's no difference between Woody, the New Age gourmet, ensuring a clean colon by eating the same thing every day, and the cla.s.sic worst-case, xenophobic tourista"the one who whether in Singapore, Rome, Hanoi, or Mexico City insists on eating every meal in the hotel restaurant. One fears "dirty" water, "unsafe" vegetables, "ooky," "weird," and unrecognizable local specialties. The other fears "toxins" and "impurities."

It's bad enough when you b.u.mp into a curmudgeonly fellow countryman while on vacation in a foreign land. But to bring his tao home with you is another thing. Especially when the curmudgeon's worldview has been shaped in that crossroads of enlightenment, Hollywood.

In striking contrast, Trotter's curiosity is a saving grace. And Trotter and Klein's creativity with a self-imposed restrictive form is something to be celebrateda"I guess. Raw struggles mightily to convince the reader that "cheese" made from cashew can be a satisfactory subst.i.tute, and that "lasagne" made from zucchini "noodles" wouldn't be a h.e.l.l of a lot better with the inclusion of some real pasta, but even the book's full-color food p.o.r.n photos seem painfully lacking in some vital aspect. (Pork, perhaps.) Raw is a quantum leap in the realm of what's possible with fruits and vegetables. But by offering comfort, sustenance, and encouragement to Woody Harrelson and would-be Woodys everywhere, Trotter and Klein have opened a Pandora's box of fissionable material. At a time in history when Americans, to an ever greater extent, have reasons to turn inward, away from this fabulously diverse and marvelous planet and the millions of proud cooks who live on it; at a time when people are afraid of just about everything, the authors have made willful avoidance and abstinence an ever-more attractive option.

I admire their skills. I really do.

But I fear for the planet.

ISANYBODY HOME?.

it was late at night in New Orleans. The liquor was flowing and the large and unruly group of chefs, managers, and cooks, freshly released from their restaurants, was in a truth-telling mode. Among them, a contingent of professionals from one of Emeril Laga.s.se's better restaurants was particularly disgruntled. Not with Chef Laga.s.se, about whom they had nothing but nice things to say; and not with the general state of affairs in their restaurant, of which they were quite proud. It was those d.a.m.n customers again.

"They come in in their ugly shorts, with their cameras. And they ask, 'Is Emeril in the kitchen? Can you get him to come out and say "Bam!"? " moaned one of them. "Dude! We're a fine dining restaurant!"

It's an inevitable effect of the celebrity chef phenomenon that people are as interested now in "who" is making their food as "what" they're eating. While on one hand, the advent of the celebrity chef has been good for America in that it has raised the level of pride and prestige in the profession and inspired people to eat better, cook better, and expect more of their restaurants, it has also created a cult of personality completely divorced from the realities of the business.

There should be little expectation that Emeril himself will be hunched over the stove when you eat at NOLA or Emeril's in New Orleans. The man has an empire to run. He's got restaurants all over the country, a product line, television shows, endors.e.m.e.nts to make, books to write. Do you really think he's cooking your chicken? He's put in his time. After all those years on the hot line, all that time building a "brand" and a business, doesn't he deserve to kick back in an office, have a c.o.c.ktail, spend a little quality time with friends and family, and let others do the heavy lifting? Of course he does.

And while it's completely understandable that some nitwits who know him only as loveable TV Emerila"and who have no understanding or appreciation of what it took for him to get therea"might expect him to come by their table for a photo op in between dunking their squid into the fryer, it's inexcusable that professional food writers knowingly continue to perpetuate the myth that The Famous Chef Is In The Kitchen. They know it not to be true. Yet they continue. It makes, one can only a.s.sume, better copy.

An Important Food Writer who knows better recently penne a column in which he snarkily suggested that if he were payin one hundred thirty dollars for a meal at a Famous Chef restaurant, he had every right to expect the Famous Chef t be in attendance, at least to swing by the table (presumably t pay homage to The Important Writer). Ridiculous! Most time when you see a legitimate restaurant review in which sentenc appear like "Chef Flay has a delicate hand with the chipotle . . ." or "Duca.s.se's feeling for the flavors of Provence infor every course . . ." and you find yourself conjuring an image o the Famous Chef leaning over each of the reviewer's plate nervously correcting seasoning or adjusting the garnish, you a complicit in a myth. If the chef is famous enough for you t know his or her name, chances are, he or she is currently Not Ir Important Food Writer, of course, knows full well that Ch Duca.s.se has reportedly barely touched a plate of food in nearl twenty years. Chef Duca.s.se is likely sitting in the first-cla.s.s cab" of a flight to Hong Kong, or Paris, or Las Vegas. Chef Ducas personally tossing your salad is about as likely to happen Wolfang Puck popping up to serve you pizza at the airpo Important Food Writer knows that Mario Batali is opening his twelfth restaurant in the last six months, and can hardly be expected to be personally making their gnocchi. Yet he persists. Worse, he gets angry. As responsible as anyone for building the legend and career of the Famous Chef, Important Food Writer now feels . . . strangely . . . jilted. Where is the Famous Chef he's written so adoringly about all these years, about whose "light touch" and "instinctive way with oursirC he's dedicated so many column inches? Why isn't he here, now, to kiss the ring of his creator?

"If you're not in your kitchen because you're doing a dinner for one of their charities, then it's okay," says one Famous Chefa"who still actually works in his four-star kitchen as much as he can. "If it's not for them [the food writers], though, then it's not okay . . . They're either shaking you down for free meals for events, panel discussions, or symposiumsa"or crying you are not in your kitchen.

"There are blue-collar chefsa"and white-collar chefs. This business is all about mentoring," Famous Chef goes on to say. "Tom Colicchio, Joel Robuchon, the guys who run their kitchens . . . they've been with them twenty yearsl"

"The menus?" he laughs, imitating one Michelin-starred icon. "Show eet to me when eet's done."

"Look at it this way," suggests Another Famous Chef. "You can't be a great chef if the food is not consistent. You need a day offa"and the food must, must be exactly the same when you are not there as it is when you are there. This is fundamental to the business. Even if you have only one restaurant. You are a leader. You create a team who executes your style. Your vision. It's the same when you start opening more places."

"What about Wylie Dufresne [of New York City's WD-50] and Scott-Bryan [of Veritas]?" I ask, referring to two excellent and celebrated chefs who still seem chained to their kitchens.

"Blue-collar chefs," say both Famous and Another Famous Chef. "And they are terrible on television."

A celebrity chef who's worked particularly hard to maintain a publicly honest and realistic balance is Mario Batali. From the very inception of each of his new restaurants, he partners witha" and gives credit toa"a chef who has his own unique (yet similarly heartfelt) vision. Fish guru Dave Pasternack is fundamental to Esca, Mark Ladner to Lupa. Each restaurant was created around the strengths and pa.s.sions of the chef partner as much as any concept. Yet Batali is the frequent target of embittered snarkol-ogists like the Los Angeles Times's Regina Schrambling, whose loathing for Batali seems to increase in direct proportion to his success. That every single one of Batali's restaurants is not only solidly good (at least), but even more remarkablya"given the fiercely compet.i.tive nature of the New York restaurant businessa"profitable, should, one would think, deserve admiration. Life with Mario for New York foodies is surely better than it was before he arrived on the scene. Each new restaurant concept he's brought us has been, on balance, not only beneficial, but daring. Who knew we needed a place specializing in raw Italian seafood (Esca), or Sardinian pizza (Otto), or hoof and snout Italian (Babbo), or offal-centric Spanish tapas (Casa Mono)? Apparently we did. So who cares if you don't like the clogs or the TV show?

Mario, of course, regularly cooks in none of the restaurants. You'll see him hovering by the pa.s.s for the first few weeks of operations, as at the recent opening of Bistro du Vent, or swilling wine on the stoop across from Babbo. But cut the guy a break. He's not making your pasta.

Even Saint Thomas of Napa, probably America's greatest and most revered chefa"Thomas Keller of the French Laundry, that isa"now also runs two Bouchons (one in Napa, one in Vegas) and the four-starred Per Se in New York. Hasn't the man done enough? Do you really want him to die behind the range?

The answer to that is probably "yes, Y do."

"You create a style," explains Famous Chef. "You work all those years, all those hours. No family life, no free time. All the sacrifice. Around thirty-eight, thirty-nine, you look around and you see the new guys, with their own vision, their own stylesa" and it doesn't speak to you. You see it. You respect it. But you can't do it. It's not you. You've said what you had to say. It's time to get out. To move on. Expand. Create something for your old age."

It's not just about you, he goes on to explain. "When your chef de cuisine has been with you ten years, they want their own thing. They deserve it. You want to keep them in the company, all these people who have been with you. They want to move up. So you open up another place. Then another. You make room for the next generation."

Judging from the strident opinions on this subject in magazines and newspapers and foodie Web sites, it would be easy to conclude that it's a cla.s.s thing: The dining cla.s.ses, who have always been different (at least until recently) from the cooking cla.s.s, simply hate to see the backstairs help coming up in the world. In England, Gordon Ramsay and Marco Pierre White, in particular, were singled out as "climbers," stepping up from their "cla.s.s" in a way that seemed to offend. The speed with which some hurried to declare them "over" as soon as they opened another restaurant was breathtaking.

The Famous Chef has no obligation to you, or anyone else, to be present in the restaurant. And you should not expect him or her to be.

"You should expect it to be good," says Famous Chef. That's the bottom line.

BOTTOMING OUT.

there is no one less sympathetic to the trials, tribulations, and humiliations of the addict than an ex-junkie. No emergency room triage is more immediate and unforgiving than the way an ex-junkie sizes up a still-in-the grip former colleague. I hear that familiar, whiny tone of voice, I see the pinned, cartoon eyes of the smack user, or the jumpy, twitchy, molar-grinding, gibberish-spewing face of the c.o.ke-fiend, and I see a dead man. I'm not listening anymore. If I pay attention at all, it's to make sure they're not rifling through my coat. Cold? Yes. But then, junkies are used to stone-cold logic. Life, for someone whose body, brain, nerves, and cell tissue require (rather than desire) their drug of choice in order to get out of bed in the morning, is actually a very simple matter. You have one job: To get drugs. There's only one thing you have to do each day: Get drugs. One's priorities are always straight. Simply put: Nothing else matters. Those of us who've been addicted to heroin and/or cocaine (and I've been addicted to both) understand that better than anybody. You know, without question, that your best friend in the world will, given the opportunity, steal your drugs or your money or snitch you off to the cops. You know, without question, exactly how low you would be willing to go to get what you need. Chances are, you've been there already. More than once.

Stories about drugs and rehabilitation are boring, particularly when it's some Hollywood actor, grinning out from the cover of People magazine, yammering about Clean and Sober and their new project. We've heard it all before. Some people live. Others die. Who survives and who doesn't seems most often to have been determined long before the subject enters treatmenta"when the junkie in question looks in the mirror one morning and decides that he really, truly wants to live. If there's any question in your mind, before you even walk through the doors of the methadone clinic or rehab facility, about how badly you want to turn things around, and what you're willing to do to accomplish that, then lose my number.

The memory of the bitter taste of heroin in the back of my throat, the smell of burning candles, the taste of paint chips mistaken for a pebble of dropped crack, a whiff of urine and stale air from long-ago tenement drug superstores on the Lower East Side all came back when I watched Robert Downey Jr. being hauled off again in handcuffs. And this time, I actually cared a little. "This guy must really hate himself," I thought, reading of cocaine and speed allegedly found in his room. That he is, to my mind, one of the finest actors working in Hollywood, matters not at all. That he's spent some time in jail was, if anything, a recommendation. I'd hoped he'd be cast in one of the film versions of my books, as he seemed to have the perfect resume for the job. My first thought, though, was, "Cocaine and speedll}" That's not comfortable oblivion! That's pedal to the metal, headed straight into the wall. If there are two faster routes to the dung heap I don't know of them. They can't even be fun anymore. After years of having as much cocaine as you want, you find yourself just chasing that first pleasurable hit, looking to recapture that first pleasant rush.

Ally McBeal can't have helped. If I were an actor of Downey's caliber, I can't say I'd be too happy with myself, mugging and lip-locking on that silly, faux-heart-warming exercise in cynicism. I wondered immediately: "The guy's right out of the joint! Who let him work a job where he's going to have d.a.m.n good reason to hate himself?"

People are fragile, very fragile, when they leave rehab. For the first year, it seems like the pleasure centers of the brain have shut down for good, like one's oldest and best love has died. This is not a time to acquire new reasons for shame, fear, regret; you've had plenty of that already. It's time to get away. Far away from old friends, old haunts, old temptations.

In the jargon of rehab, "bottoming out" is mentioned frequently and annoyinglya"often as a prerequisite to treatment. When life is at least as unbearable with drugs as without, when the thought of a fat stack of gla.s.sine envelopes or an eight-ball promises only more misery, some people make that hard choice to tally up the betrayals and the wreckage and keep living. It's not easy. Manya"if not mosta"fail. Most times, you really have to do something terribly shameful, experience awfulness in previously unimagined degrees, before you see a life without drugs as a preferred, even necessary option. Jail, in Mr. Downey's case, doesn't seem to have been enough. Maybe Ally McBeal will be.

FOODTERRORISTS.

right now, in the streets of Phnom Penh, in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, in scores of Caribbean shantytowns, wherever people are poor and struggling and living with little hope of better lives, you'll also find stray dogs, starved, spavined, limping, and covered with mange. In Southeast Asia, sun bears are hooked up to kidney drips, like living ketchup dispensers, and their bile is drained and collected for traditional Eastern medicine. Rhino horn, bear claw, shark fina"the still living parts of every variety of creature are sought after for their supposedly restorative powers, or as holistic alternatives to v.i.a.g.r.a. Thousands upon thousands of unwanted cats and dogs are exterminated every month in American cities, victims of the laziness, irresponsibility, and caprice of a wealthy nation.

Yet in San Francisco, our heroic eco-warriors have found a more compelling front line in the struggle against animal cruelty. A supposedly underground group of fanatical animal rights activists has apparently decided that Chef Laurent Manrique's pint-size specialty store, Sonoma Saveurs, must be restraineda" by any means necessarya"from selling foie gras. To this end, they broke in to the historical adobe structure, spray-painted walls and equipment, destroyed the plumbing with cement, pumped water throughouta"thereby damaging two neighboring businesses as wella"vandalized Manrique's home, doused his car with acid, and threatened him in phone calls and letters.