menu selection . Visualization and pre-planning are the keys to a smooth flowing and disaster-free evening. Begin buy selection a set of recipes with which you feel comfortable. When creating a complete menu, mix recipes that can be fixed in advance with those that need to be prepared or finished during the party.

A few days ahead of the dinner, spend a half hour during your commute to work (or whenever your mind tends to take a cat nap) and focus on the number of guests, the food, the cooking facilities, and the working space in which you will be cooking. Picture yourself preparing the dishes you intend to make and serving them in the manner you have chosen. If the act of visualizing the preceding steps causes butterflies in your stomach, select alternative recipes, simplify the menu, and/or plan to do more of the cooking in advance.

If you are a certified dinner party phobic attempting to overcome your anxieties, select a recipe that can be prepared earlier in the day, i.e., a curry, and serve it with a simple salad of baby greens. Buy a finger food and a dessert or, more simply still, ask two guests to bring them. In so doing, you can put the mental block of food preparation behind you and focus on the deep-rooted source of your phobia.

pre-production . It's not always possible, and never crucial, to prepare all of the food during the last 90 minutes before your guests arrive, or in their presence. Most of my recipes can be prepared, at least partially, one day in advance. The flavors of some foods, such as soups and curries, actually improve after sitting for a day. Other foods can be prepared in advance and frozen -- although I confess to having little experience in this area because the freezer section in my aesthetically pleasing fifties refrigerator functions exclusively as a frost factory.

The corollary to food improving with time is that some foods lose their zest if prepared too far in advance. Before serving any food, taste it. If necessary, "refresh" it with salt, pepper, lemon and/or a generous portion of the same herbs that were used originally to flavor the dish.

sizing the servings . Unless you have specifically asked how hungry individual guests are, it is desirable to make all portions equal. The first phase of portion control takes place when shopping for ingredients. Sometimes a little hardball may be required. For example, if you were to request twelve 1-inch-thick salmon steaks from your local fishmonger, he would probably cut them from a single salmon. Unfortunately, the cut from the middle of the fish can be twice as wide as the cuts nearest the head or tail. There's always almost another salmon "in the back" and you must stand your ground to get what you need. After all, you are the customer and, per the retail credo, that makes you always right.

To avoid running out of food, prepare a little extra -- even at the expense of having leftovers. When planning for casual parties where additional guests may drop by, or arrive in tow with your invited guests, it's always wise to prepare extra portions of the main dish. At least be sure to have lots of something i.e., salad, bread, veggies, etc.

If you are assembling plates for a seated affair, don't let any plate out of the kitchen until you are certain that you have enough of everything to complete the remaining dishes.

timing is everything . Having settled on a menu and decided which items to cook in advance, slide back into the visualization mode for a moment and imagine that it's 15 minutes before showtime. Will everything be ready at the same time? Are the garnishes prepped? Did you put the rise on?

Return to the present and create a "critical path" by establishing the sequence in which each dish needs to be started, refreshed or reheated. When in doubt, scribble out a running order and stick it on the refrigerator.

When showtime arrives, wait until the last minute to put the finishing touch on delicate foods. As a rule, begin steering your guests toward the dinner table before tossing the salad, adding shrimp to a sauce or steaming vegetables.

the accelerated assembly line . Assembling a large number of plates quickly is a challenge for professional chefs and amateurs alike. Before you begin, think about how you would like the food to look on the plate and how the colors, shapes and textures will interact. Create a blueprint in your mind and plan to assemble each plate identically. Then:

Luckily I don't suffer from nausea, so the semi-suicidal 2,000-foot climb to Montalcino rewards me with stunning views of Tuscany's grandeur. "That's where I live," Yoshi mentions casually with just a hint of pride. I follow his gaze up the mountain to the rustic hamlet now barely visible behind its wall. A few church towers rise above the crowded maze of tenant buildings. A woman opens the red shutters of her rustic apartment. March in Montalcino is a long, lingering month. With that in mind, I feel the urge to kill Yoshi and steal his job and life when I'm suddenly quelled by some amalgamate image from childhood: the Italian equivalent of Julie Andrews running down a green, mountain pasture, arms aflight, Ave Maria wafting in the background. I relax and enjoy the scenery with only mild pangs of jealousy.

We're in southern Tuscany -- the place Adam and Eve had to leave after Eve bit into that ripe sangiovese grape. Here, there's no shortage of excruciatingly quaint hilltop towns; no problem making you feel like writing home to say, "Sell everything. Never returning." Southern Tuscany is wine country, is Italy, is civilization at its very best. And if southern Tuscany is all that, Montalcino (Moan-tall-chino) is the capital in my eyes -- what most Americans must envision when they think of Italy. Picture the medieval burg clinging to its pinnacle, the serpentine cobblestone streets and squat grandmothers who negotiate them. Churchbells can be heard from anywhere in the city. Good wine is a given. Here, the pace is slower, the olive oil greener, and the entire town seems to reek of the perfection of daily life.

"There's not much to do in Montalcino," Yoshi says. But he says it in such a way that leaves me thinking "nothing to do" in Montalcino is most definitely a good thing. Here, hours are stretched free of charge. Wineglasses swell with content, and like the mythic Hydra, dishes of savory pasta seem to regenerate threefold every bite you take. There are no teenybopper discotheques, no cheesy trinket venders peddling their weary wares on the streets. Not even the Let's Go and Rick Steves backpacker hordes find their way up the mountain (often), as it's a bit difficult to reach. No train braves the perilous climb up to Montalcino's summit. Without a car, you're better off taking the one-hour bus ride from Siena.

Once at Montalcino, you're greeted by a perfectly preserved medieval hamlet. Start with a walk to the far end of the city where the fortress, or Rocca, lies. Familiarize yourself with the one main street. This requires little effort and will also let you kick off your stay in Montalcino at its Rocca. Walk the grounds, take a stroll along the catwalks, or cruise inside the turrets. And though the views from just about anywhere in Montalcino are truly inspiring, those from atop the Rocca feel somehow even more regal. Plan secret attacks on neighboring villages, wax philosophic, or just suck in the mountain air.

Although constructed in the 14th century, the Rocca has been "modernized" inside with the addition of its own wine bar, or enoteca -- arguably the first Italian term you should memorize. These blessed creatures, these enoteche, curiously absent (or at least endangered in America) thrive in Montalcino. And enoteche make me very happy. This particular one allows you to sample not only some of Italy's finest wines ($1.50 to $5 a glass) but also local meats and cheeses, like the indigenous wild boar sausage and the smooth Pecorino cheese.

Someone dead and famous once said, "To truly appreciate someplace, go there poor." That sums up my travel philosophy as much in principle as out of necessity. And while northern Italy is no budget traveler's dream, we will endure. Believe me, you'll feel better spending money on a truly memorable Tuscan experience -- like a few glasses of wine in the Rocca -- than you will getting your caricature taken outside the Duomo in Florence for triple the price.

If you're looking for something a little less, well, fortress-like and expensive, check out Enoteca Franci, one of Yoshi's hangouts. You'll find it in the main piazza to the side of the clock tower on Via Mazzini. Enoteca Franci is the Cheers of the city, attracting every living inhabitant in Montalcino, young and old, hip and otherwise. During sunny days, get a bottle of great Montalcino wine, sip a cappuccino or snack on some rustic salami and Parmigiano cheese. At night, the atmosphere is right out of a Hemingway novel: red vinyl benches; mirrors; chandeliers; and a dark, cavernous back room full of wines to choose from or to ogle, or both. Sound expensive and chic? Nah. Plus you get the whole "ex-patriot, grainy black-and-white" feeling to boot.

And there's plenty of great wine to go around. First and foremost, the top wine, the black rooster of the town: Brunello di Montalcino. Actually, its reputation doesn't just apply to Montalcino, Tuscany or even Italy. In the world of wine, Brunello is a big boy. A strain of the more familiar sangiovese grape of Chianti, Brunello (so named because of its brownish hue) is responsible for Italy's finest red wine alongside Barolo. With a minimum aging of four years -- six months of which must be in bottle -- Brunello is a dark, dry, potent wine that goes with anything it wants. For that reason, it's, well, a bit expensive. A bottle will start around $20 and run as far as your credit card can. And further. And faster. Keep in mind, though, that the same wine in America -- provided you can even find it -- costs much more. From the little investigating I've done, you're looking at around a $10 to $15 price hike in America on Brunello. In addition, you have the usually insane "dock fees" or whatever American restaurants call their premiums. Translation: if you feel like doing it up in Montalcino, Brunello is the one.

But I have good news for those who don't want to mortgage their mothers for wine: Rosso di Montalcino. This wine is made from the same sangiovese strain. In many respects, it's the same wine, the only difference is the aging time and price tag. And sure, I could probably tell the difference between Brunello and Rosso. But I can also tell the difference between a Mercedes and a Honda. And which is better for the money? Rosso starts at $5 and runs to about $10 for the top producers. Don't sweat these big names, though. Every bottle I had was a lesson in how to enjoy life. And if you're not a total wine geek, Rosso, in most cases, is a much better choice than the far pricier Brunello.

The more established wineries in Montalcino excel in most all the varietals, though. Apart from the slew of red wines, you can peruse anything in white from sauvignon blanc to the syrupy sweet moscato. In short, Montalcino is a wine town. You merely need to visit Enoteca Franci or any one of the some thirty million bars or enoteche (or so it seems, as potential wine pit stops appear with blissful regularity). And when drinking wine in Montalcino remember: being snobbish with wine doesn't come naturally to Italians. Wine is their mass consumption, normal beverage which, for most Italians, still comes in a water glass. As such, wine drinking seems a touch more genuine, more enjoyable. No pedantic rigamarole, just good wine and, of greater importance, kind, witty people.

If you're itching to taste the proverbial "fruit of the vine" and want to experience what really put Montalcino on the map, go to the tourist office and get a bus schedule for the wineries themselves. They're located outside the city, it takes a vehicle, a Japanese friend with a vehicle, a bus, a taxi or a long thumb to get there. For a taste of the original Brunello, head toward Biondi Santi. Clemente Santi was responsible for isolating the Brunello strain of the sangiovese grape in the last century. Since then, Biondi Santi has claimed awards around the world for its Brunello. Good for them. Also good for us -- if we want to spend around $40 a bottle. Prices and standards are high. However, if you're a Brunello freak, or plan on becoming one, this wine is a "must taste;" and the winery, a connoisseur's "must see."

I also highly recommend Banfi: one of the most established yet progressive wineries in Montalcino. You can enjoy the views from the tasting room, the Banfi Villa, the Banfi Castle and, most importantly, slurp some vino with Yoshi. (Tell him I sent you. Heck, it might be good for some perks.) You can even eat at the winery, if you want to drop some major cash and really impress your significant other. However, any type of winery experience is possible. Montalcino has everything from space age, stainless steel producers, to old school brothers with unpronounceable names.

Just about any type of winery experience is possible, though. Montalcino has everything from space age, stainless steel producers to old-school brothers with unpronounceable names. The smaller estate of Campogiovanni, for example, doesn't have the esteemed reputation and, therefore, must make quality wine at the lowest cost possible. Although owned by the larger San Felice, Campogiovanni is fighting to make a name for itself in the highly traditional ground of Montalcino And in this category, there's a plethora of great wineries ready to sell you on wine before non-existent, or at best, respectively small, reputations. Apart from Campogiovanni, definitely try Marchesato degli Aleramici, Col d'Orcia, Castelgiocondo, Mastroianni and la Poderina. Brunello from these producers usually runs in the $18 to $30 range; Rosso from $6 to $10. Though their wines are easy to acquire, information on most of these wineries is scarce. Check with the tourist office, or call directly upon arriving.

"But we must eat," you say. "We can't live on wine alone." Sadly, this is true. Have no fear, though. If the Montalcinese know anything beside wine, they know food. And the question is not where or what to eat, but how to sample everything without breaking your budget or your new Italian leather belt. Yoshi and I checked out his favorite place, Osteria di Porta al Cassero. From the street it may not seem like much. The actual surroundings are quite simple and unpretentious -- my favorite style. But the smell alone is enough to merit a try. I almost floated in on a wave of heavenly aromas a la Tom and Jerry. Definitely try anything with wild boar, usually prepared as a stew or ragù. And if tripe is your game, it's also the specialty. Yoshi partook. I did not. If you're like me, check out Pici -- thick, worm-like spaghetti -- or Pappardelle -- big ribbons. Both are traditionally served with one of many rustic treats from meat lover's heaven and come almost attached to a bottle of Montalcino vino.

For espresso, cappuccino and every derivative thereof, stop by Bar Mariuccia, sort of across from Enoteca Franci. I never asked, but the elderly couple who slings the java must be the Mariuccias. A real mom-and-pop operation complete with sweets from another Mariuccia who runs a pastry shop and rents rooms down the road. Stunning views of the countryside await in the backroom of the bar. There is no charge to sit down or be waited on as there is in the bars of some of the more touristy hilltop towns.

Now you're beat. You pounded out the last drop of your Brunello and went for the after-dinner grappa. Feeling oh so Italian, you even stopped for the late-night espresso. Where to stay? Hotels are scarce and expensive, but fortunately rooms abound. While taking your non-goal-oriented strolls, you probably saw signs here and there saying: "camere/zimmer/rooms." These could be anything from private rooms inside family houses to quasi-condos.

The best I found was a place called Il Moro. Also located on Via Mazzini but away from the main piazza, Il Moro is attached to the trattoria of the same name. There are four double rooms, beautifully refinished with wooden interiors, superb views and a combined kitchen/dining room/sitting room downstairs. I was there in March, and my girlfriend and I had the whole swanky place to ourselves. A room will run you about $40 a night, but it increases to $60 from Easter to the festival month of June. Well worth it, even if you have to bend, twist or otherwise alter your budget. If Il Moro doesn't turn your crank, check with the Mariuccia family or the tourist office by the main piazza for listings. Otherwise, take another leisurely stroll around the city inquiring about prices when you see the sign "camere/zimmer/rooms." Nothing could give you a better feel for Montalcino and its inhabitants.

More rustic getaways are also possible. If you're bent on getting away from everything, try an agriturismo: usually a rural hotelesque setting on the road less traveled. Being that Montalcino is already a tad "out there," agriturismo offers you the possibility of stretching your days even further. For a really different take, try Abbadia Ardenga. This ex-abbey now rents entire apartments at reasonable prices (starts at about $20 per person per day). This is particularly worthwhile for larger groups. A minimum stay of three days is required.

If Il Moro and the rustic hideaways don't turn your crank, there are, of course, the star clustered hotels. Montalcino's best -- Hotel Bellaria and Albergo Ristorante Il Giglio -- boast three stars and have all the amenities. Get the full treatment and opt for "full pension" -- two square meals along with the room, all at the same place for around $85 per person.

If you go for a posh pad, save money on eats by grabbing some sausage, cheese, good Tuscan bread and wine from the COOP supermarket. Have a picnic on the church lawn at the opposite end of the town from the Rocca. And don't worry if you find yourself becoming more Montalcinese than you thought possible: hanging out in bars when you're not thirsty, chatting with locals when you don't speak Italian. I was even eyeing Yoshi's overtly Italian shoes and coat thinking, "those are pretty sharp." Just enjoy these metabolic changes -- what I group collectively as "The Montalcino Syndrome" -- while they last.

When the maven of Italian cooking writes another cookbook, you best pay attention. This isn’t a spaghetti and meatballs book - this is Italian cooking from Italy, with Italian ingredients and a whole lotta straightforward Italian advice from Ms. Hazan. (You did see the word “Master� in the title, didn’t you?) Be sure to try Baked Mozzarella, Tomato, Capers and Parmesan Crostini; Fennel and Goat Cheese Salad; Veal Shanks with Lemon; and Spaghetti “Rotolo� with Zucchini and Bacon. It’s almost like graduate school for foodies. C’mon, you know you wanna bust Iron Chef Italian on home culinary turf. So don’t cut class.

Inspired by Ingredients
by Bill Telepan
(Simon & Schuster, $35)

New York City chef Bill Telepan loves fresh ingredients - so much so that he dedicated an entire book to cooking (and eating) seasonally. Telepan comes across as an enthusiastic guy who must have been a farmer in a past life. (Maybe even a Master Farmer.) Recipes range from easy to complicated, but there’s something for everyone - from Pan-Fried Summer Jersey Vegetables and a delectable Pea Soup, to Chilled Shrimp with an Autumn Slaw, to Grilled Dry-Aged Rib-Eye Steak with a Red Onion Cipollata and Herbed White Beans. Head to your local farmer’s market, grab some of-the-moment veggies and get Berkeley on everyone’s ass.

Off the Shelf: Cooking from the Pantry
by Donna Hay
(Morrow, $25)

Reasons why we love Donna Hay: the recipes are easy, the food’s tasty, and the books are paperback (read: lightweight) yet full of pretty pictures. This Aussie chef has come out with another must-have cookbook, and the only shopping involved serves to stock the pantry. For those nights when unexpected (read: uninvited) guests drop by, rest easy that you can now step into the kitchen and whip up dishes like Stir-Fried Prawns and Noodles; Baked Chicken, Lemon and Pea Risotto; and Pasta with Buttered Broccoli. She even throws in recipes for quick sweets like a Peach and Raspberry Tart; Honey Cakes; and Raspberry Sorbet. Off the Shelf will rescue even the most novice cook from take-out menus.

Barefoot in Paris: Easy French Food You Can Really Make at Home
by Ina Garten
(Clarkson Potter, $35)

I love Paris… and I especially love it a la the Barefoot Contessa, otherwise known as Ina Garten. Ms. Garten manages to transform fussy French recipes into easy, do-it-at-home-in-under-one-week dishes. Her simple recipes include classics like Boeuf Bourguignon; Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic; Zucchini Vichyssoise; Loin of Pork with Green Peppercorns; and Blue Cheese Souffle. (And the Creme Brulee - ready to bake in 10 minutes, I swear - is a godsend.) Her conversational tone will ease any kitchen anxiety, and before you know it you’ve made an entire meal. Buy this book, kick off your Jimmy Choos, pour yourself a Kir Royale and browse through the glossy photos. It’s like Paris without the long flight and snooty customs officials.

Feast: Food to Celebrate Life
by Nigella Lawson
(Hyperion, $35)

Nigella, the British icon known for her sensual finger-licking television show and cleavage as much as for her culinary skills, is back with a book dedicated to holiday feasts. Impress your beloved with a dozen Love Buns or a Chocolate Raspberry Heart on Valentine’s Day, or liven up Halloween with Blood and Guts Potatoes and Ghoul-Graveyard Cake. For lesser-known holidays (like my-in-laws-are-coming-for-brunch-so-help-me-God), whip up Ms. Lawson’s tasty Banana Buttermilk Pancakes or a batch of Andy’s Fairfield Granola. New Year’s, Midnight Feast, Wedding Fest, Festival of Lights, Rosh Hashanah - they’re all here and they’re all fabulous. (There’s even a “Meatless Feast� section for you veg-heads.) Start celebrating. Burning Man is just around the corner.

I am anything but a teetotaler. Ask any of my friends if they’ve ever seen me without alcohol in my hand (after 6pm... okay, when i'm awake) and they’ll laugh you silly. Mind you, I am a responsible drinker. I don’t drink and drive (mainly ‘cause I don’t have a car) and I don’t get shit-faced to the point I can’t remember my name (that’s what friends are for, right?).

I do, however, enjoy a great mug o’ coffee or cup o’ tea. That’s why when the press release from Teaposy crossed my desk… okay, it’s really more like an old door on sawhorses, I had to get a sample. Because very few products end up looking or performing as well as the press release boasts.

The Garden Gift set (pictured above) lived up to all expectations and PR boasts. The cute little Socrates cups (every time I hear/read Socrates I remember Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure and pronounce it “so-crates�) are just that, and the tea pots are not only elegant but thoughtfully functional. Granted, the little cups hold about as much tea as I consume in one sip (I solved that prob by drinking directly from the pot), but for a special dinner or meal (or prelude to sex) this is the perfect tea set to bring out.

Wait, there’s more. If you really wanna WOW your guest(s), drop a Teaposy “Blooming Tea� into your pot and watch a beautiful blossom unfold before your eyes. There are eight blooming teas to choose from, each containing silver needle white tea and herbal flowers, stitched together with natural cotton thread. And each produces a wonderfully unique experience and taste.

For more info visit www.teaposy.com.

XXX – Highest Rating

- JC

My good friend Colin Devlin (who introduced me to Fiachna) is in Montreal recording an album, and I’m staying in his vacated flat. Colin bet me a hundred dollars that I wouldn’t survive the week on my self-styled diet. When I arrived at his flat, I discovered a chicken suit hanging in the bedroom with a note pinned to it. It read:

Dear Bob,

This suit is your end of the bargain. Fiachna will be happy to show you a fantastic time in Dublin. But if you cave in, you’ll have to wear this chicken suit for the duration of your stay.

Cheers,

Colin

PS: Please water the plants.

Day 1 (Monday)

Today Fiachna and I mucked about, had a couple of warm-up pints, then headed down to The Purdy, one of Dublin’s many gastropubs, for a fabulous last supper. Like a man on death row sitting down to his last meal, I ordered oysters (accompanied by Chablis), tagliatelle carbonara (accompanied by a Borolo), sea bass on roasted vegetables, garlic fried potatoes and stir-fried veggies (with a full bottle of [white] Mercury from Burgundy) and a multitude of desserts – followed by Irish coffee, a shot of Bailey’s and a Blackbush Irish whiskey (on the house).

In a spontaneous show of solidarity (or drunken moment – you choose), Fiachna surprised me by announcing that he was going to join me on the diet. At the stroke of 6 pm the two of us ended the gluttony and officially embarked on our week-long Guinness diet. If all goes well, neither of us will have a morsel of solid food, or any liquid other than Guinness (or water), until 6pm on Friday.

We headed to Searson’s, “the local�, for a couple of pints before calling it a night.

Day 2 (Tuesday)

At about 9 am, I stumbled into the living room of Colin’s flat to discover two beautiful Irish girls sitting at the dining room table. One was salaciously juicing fresh oranges as the other set out a full-on Irish breakfast. A place had been set for me and all was offered up. While I was surveying the spread, Fiachna arrived and informed me that this was a regular monthly gathering. Even though it was too late to cancel it, he promised to persevere with his half of the deal. We cracked a couple cans of Guinness and watched the girls eat (and believe me, these Irish lassies put the girls from Los Angeles to shame when it comes to eating). The beer was surprisingly satisfying and the company almost made me forget what I was missing.

After our breakfast of champions, I visited a local doctor for a brief assessment. He was a bit shocked by my report on last night’s alcohol consumption (note to self: remember the 50 percent rule when responding to doctor’s questions about alcohol consumption), but after taking my vital stats, he pronounced me to be in fighting form.

Fiachna and I headed to an illustrious local pub to celebrate the positive prognosis. We had a pint while the camera crew ate a HUGE pub lunch in front of us. Afterwards, Fiachna headed to the studio to mix a track for an album he’s recording with the drummer of the Flowers and the original bass player of the Pogues (and Elvis Costello’s former wife). And I headed to another pub for a prearranged meeting with Father Brean.

I was seeking council in the art of avoiding temptation, and the good Father chose to dispense it while feasting on a delicious-looking plate of shepherd’s pie. Actually he was quite a hoot and gave me the best tip so far. His advice: to plug my nose when I was around aromatic food. I responded by sticking a napkin up each nostril, then sending our production assistant out for swimming nose plugs.

After bidding adieu to the man of the cloth, it was on to Fiachna’s studio to hear a few tracks. His band mates were both there – munching on a freshly delivered pizza.

As if that wasn’t enough temptation for one day, Fiachna insisted that we go to a party thrown by The Dubliner magazine to celebrate their “Top 100 Restaurants� issue. Naturally, the place was lousy with food, wine and chefs. We made a few friends, then headed off for one last pint.

The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 7 (or 8 depending who was counting)
Water: at least a gallon
Pees: About 15.

Day 3 (Wednesday)

Another day of temptation and torture.

A beautifully presented plate of eggs Benedict greeted me as I opened my bedroom door this morning, but naturally it was no match for a cool pint of the brown stuff which I quaffed while reading the morning paper.

After a bit of e-mailing and general housekeeping, Fiachna took me to meet a chef friend of his at L’Ecrivian, one of Dublin’s only restaurants to earn a Michelin star. As is my nature, I ended up in the kitchen where Chef Derry showed off several of his Guinness-infused dishes. Seems as though he thought my “Guinness diet� included anything made with Guinness and he was eager to feed me. He must have anticipated my love of bacon, because just about everything from the oysters to the braised beef included it in one form or another. Frankly, it was his freshly-baked Irish soda bread that really made me weak at the knees. Chef Derry promised to pack me a box lunch for my flight on Saturday – if I last the week.

After the demo, I headed out for a pint on my own. When I came back to meet Fiachna at the restaurant, I discovered him chowing down on plate of quail and sipping an Italian red from a fish bowl-size wine glass. THE FUCKER had caved! Frankly I was impressed that the rocker had lasted this long. And after a brief brow beating, I commended him on pacing me for the first 42 hours. After Fiachna’s betrayal, I had to endure the crew moaning in delight over a stunning lunch that Chef Derry prepared.

From there we toured a few other pubs where I learned to “pull a pint� and met a few nice – albeit plastered – locals. Then after the crew stopped for a quick fry-up at the local chippy stand, Fiachna took me to a pub where he sat in on the penny flute with some traditional Irish musicians. Needless to say, a couple of pints were added to the mix.

In case you are wondering about my state of well-being, it has been a bit of a roller coaster ride. At the end of day two, I had developed a raging head ache. But it later dawned on me that it was probably due to what I wasn’t drinking – caffeine – then the all-day drinking or lack of food. I am finding myself vacillating from moments of euphoria to periods of grumpiness (yes, really!). And as I type this I’m feeling quite light-headed. So far, I’ve never felt drunk – just slightly buzzed for brief periods. And one other thing of note, I can’t turn around without seeing food or references to food everywhere I look.

The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 8
Water: tons, but probably still not enough
Pees: I lost count after 20.

Day 4 (Thursday)

This morning’s offering in front of my bedroom door was a dessert plate sent over by Chef Derry. Needless to say, the double chocolate brownie, fig shooter and vanilla custard were no match for my “pint of plain� which I enjoyed at the local at 9:30 am.

After breakfast, Fiachna sent me to his hairdresser-to-the-stars for a Guinness shampoo. Wow, the man who touched Bono’s mane touched mine. Come to think of it, Bono doesn’t have much left these days.

The rest of the day was consumed (or not as the case was) with a visit to the grave of Arthur Guinness, the founder of Guinness. Arthur died in 1802, but his great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson, Patrick Guinness is still dining off the family name. Patrick, to be fair, was very cordial (in that upper crust, self-aggrandizing kind of way) and was happy to spin truths and a half-truths about the family history until Will mercifully called “cut�.

We wrapped early and I took in the Borat movie at a packed cinema. Despite the wafting popcorn aromas, it was a welcome distraction – and wickedly funny in a juvenile kind of way.

The hunger pains have subsided, as has (most of) the grumpiness, and I’m shocked at how much energy I have considered my limited caloric intake. That said, and despite the conventional wisdom that says the stomach shrinks, I do feel as though if I let my guard down for a second, I could do some serious damage to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I am cautiously optimistic that I’ll make it to the finish line. However, my bravado is tempered by my fear that the entire crew is still determined to take me down – after all, they’ve had every culinary resource in Dublin at their fingertips. With only 18 hours to go, the proof, as they say, will be in the pudding.

The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 5 (today was the Guinness diet diet!)
Water: who cares any more
Pees: let’s just say the soles of my shoes are wearing thin

Day 5 (Friday)

Nothing could have prepared me for the challenges that would face me today.

There was a note outside my door in the spot I’d come to expect my daily breakfast offering. It read “Townsend Street #2.� I dressed quickly, glanced at the chicken suit, then ran out of the flat and waived down a taxi. The cabbie deposited me in a scrappy part of town in front of a dubious looking pub called The Windjammer. When I entered I saw Fiachna sitting at the bar devouring a plate of poached eggs on mushrooms and toast. In fairness, he was accompanying his breakfast with a pint, so naturally I joined in. The Windjammer is an “early house.� Early houses, for the initiated, are pubs in Dublin that’re licensed to open at 7am in order to serve shift workers as they get off work in the early morning hours.

After we finished our respective breakfasts, Fiachna took me to the coast to see the James Joyce museum. It was cold, overcast and rainy. As we approached I noticed several swimmers braving the icy waters. I looked at the swimmers, then at Fiachna. Suddenly my mind scrolled back to a moment as we left the early house when the soundman took my microphone pack from me “to fix a loose connection.� The penny dropped just seconds before Fiachna dropped his trousers, revealing a pair of plaid swimming trunks. Coincidentally, he just happened to have an extra pair of shorts with him, and insisted that I join him. Before I could decline, he cannon-balled into the drink and I had no choice but to follow. The 40°F ocean waters would have been a shock to any system at the best of circumstances, but they were even more jarring to my weakened body. At the same time I must admit that the experience was quite invigorating. We scampered out onto the rocks shivering. There were no towels in sight, but Fiachna produced a steaming thermos of chicken soup and held the cup up to my nose. Weakened, but not yet broken, I took the soup and poured the whole lot over my head. Chicken soup never felt so good.

With the ruse up, we toweled off and headed to a pub for a quick warm-up pint. I can’t say that it warmed my body, but it certainly took the edge off the shock. From there, Fiachna brought me to one of Ireland’s finest cheese shops. Great cheeses of the world are one of my weaknesses and this shop had them all. I did my best to ignore the wafting aromas as Fiachna and the crew devoured a tasting. Our next stop was a specialty wine store around the corner. The owner had set out a luscious food and wine pairing for us and Fiachna dove in with the same wild abandon he had displayed at the sea side. Then he announced that I could pick any wine in the shop – as long as I opened it and had a glass. I looked around the well-stocked shop and eventually spotted the reserve case. Closing in on my prey, I discovered a 1985 Petrus – one of Bordeaux’s most legendary wines, and an excellent vintage. The price was 1,250 euros, well beyond the budget of my weenie cable show. It seemed like a toothless ploy until Will, my director (and the show’s true protagonist) whipped out his wallet and produced his credit card.

At this point it should be noted that Will and I have been traveling on the magical mystery tour we call Glutton for Punishment for the past six months. By now he’s well acquainted with my many weaknesses. Will’s as competitive and tenacious as I am (but in a much more Zen-like way). Usually he’s my staunchest supporter, but in this particular episode he took it as his personal mission to take me down. He also happens to LOVE wine and wanted to taste the Petrus as much as I did.

“Drink it now and I’ll pay for it,� he said.

He was dead serious.

It’s not often in one’s life that they have the opportunity to drink an ’85 Petrus. With less than two hours left, Will taunted me by saying that I could have my wine and drink it too, then only have to endure two (humiliating) hours in the chicken suit. It was painfully tempting, but I knew the finish of the wine would fade long before the stories of my demise.

Next up was a visit to the doctor who’d examined me earlier in the week. Despite his pronouncement that I was “slightly pale and tired looking,� I was feeling surprisingly spry. He quizzed me about the week and shook his head in disbelief at how much I’d consumed. According to his scale, I lost more than five pounds. The mild-mannered doctor was quite shocked (and dismayed) to find that all my vital signs were exactly the same as my first visit. (Note to Morgan Sperlock: choose your poison wisely). Moving in for the kill, I challenged him to an arm wrestle. I’m sure I detected a flicker of fear in his eyes as he politely declined.

With a renewed spring in my step, we moved on to the market bar where my victory dinner was set to take place. Even though there was less than an hour remaining until the 6 pm finish line, many details had yet to be arranged. Peter Devlin (our local production coordinator, and Colin’s brother) was dispatched to accompany me for a last pint. Six o’clock came and went. I got a hand shake – and another pint – from Peter, but at this point, all clocks were reset to television time which basically meant that I couldn’t have my first bite until we were ready to roll. 6:30…7…7:30…another pint…8. Finally Peter’s cell phone rang with word that everyone was ready. As we walked across the street to the restaurant, it began to dawn on me that I had actually survived all the physical challenges, temptations and hurdles of the Guinness diet.

Fiachna was waiting at the bar to greet me with a victory pint. He announced that the table was almost ready. We were to be joined by chef Darry, orange juice girl, his band mates, the Guinness barber and a few other sorted and assorted characters that we had encountered in our travels. Fiachna excused himself for a pee and I nursed my last pint, thinking about how long it would be before I would order another one on my own volition. Much to my pleasure, one of the most stunning woman I had seen all week sat down on the stool Fiachna had just vacated. Needless to say I had no intention of saying it was taken. Moments later, a curvaceous full-lipped-dark-haired beauty sat down on the vacant stool to my left. Apparently the two were friends and we immediately struck up a conversation. I could tell that the fair skinned girl was Irish and the dark haired girl seemed Spanish. The Irish maiden was plucking ripe strawberries from a bowl and dipping them in freshly whipped cream. Seeing the hunger in my eyes, she generously offered me a strawberry. In my slightly buzzed state, I tried to explain my predicament. This amused her, but she would have none of it. The two of them took it as some form of challenge complete the mission that the rest of Ireland had failed to at. I held my ground, which only made them more determined. Sensing my weakened state of willpower they both offered me a long slow kiss if I would just take one bite. Eyelashes fluttered, nostrils quivered and lips curled.

Would anyone really know…after all Fiachna was in the bathroom and…hey…just a minute…

Having survived the last temptation of a very, very long week. I was shepherded to the table where I joined the waiting group (and the two girls from the bar) for the final countdown. For the record, in real time it was 8:30 pm.

5-4-3-2-1!!!

After the big hurrah everyone was curious about how I intended to break my fast.

“What I would REALLY like is nice glass of red wine�, I replied, “but there’s something I want first,� then I grabbed a long slow kiss from the two girls – who it should be noted were a bit shocked by the unscripted moment.

Moral of the whole experience: With a little will power and perseverance, you can have your cake and eat it two.

The Daily Count:
Pints of Guinness: 8
Everything else is a blur

Saturday

As I type this, I’m 36,000 feet in the air, en route home to Los Angeles. Chef Derry over-delivered on his promise and I’m munching on a pheasant, tomato confit and Gubbeen cheese sandwich – just one of the many delicacies in my well-stocked lunch box. To heighten the pleasure, and make up for lost time, I’m washing it down with a full-bodied Spanish Rioja that the flight attendant brought me from First Class in trade for some of my fois gras. My week’s experience has made me even more appreciative of the things I’m fortunate to take for granted, and it’s a renewed pleasure to be able to describe food that I am actually eating.

Glutton for Punishment airs on the Food Network in the U.S. at 9:30pm Tuesdays. In other episodes Bob Blumer enters a chili pepper eating competition, a flair bartending competition, the New York City waiter’s race, and attempts to run the Medoc marathon while sampling all 23 wines along the route.