The odd pleasure of watching people cook and eat on television seems to transcend generational boundaries. This year, Viceland, a new, millennial-focussed television network under the creative direction of Spike Jonze, has become an unlikely bastion of food-related programming. Some of its shows are expressly edifying. But many of them are renegade variations on the travel-and-chow-down theme, in which a tattooed chef (like Eddie Huang, the host of “Huang’s World,” or Frank Pinello, the host of “The Pizza Show”) goes to a far-flung locale, and ingests and ruminates for the camera.

The majority of these series began on Munchies, a Web site launched by Vice in 2014. The energy is masculine and contrarian—a corrective, perhaps, to the self-seriousness of foodie culture, and to the cozy murmurs of chefs like Ina Garten and Martha Stewart. The best of the bunch is “F*ck, That’s Delicious,” a travel show hosted by the rapper and bon vivant Action Bronson, which will begin filming its third season next year. (An accompanying book, “F*ck, That’s Delicious: An Annotated Guide to Eating Well,” was released in September.)

Bronson has a scraggly, reddish beard and eyes the color of a glacier. He weighs around three hundred pounds, and is usually wearing an oversized Carhartt shirt, athletic shorts, and sneakers. Bronson and his squad of sauntering, mild-mannered colleagues—most often, his collaborator Big Body Bes; the cherubic, winsome rapper Meyhem Lauren; and the lanky producer and d.j. the Alchemist—judge food exclusively on its visceral delights. Though Bronson has worked as a cook, and is familiar with the nuances and language of haute cuisine, he and his cronies refuse to acknowledge a chasm between high and low fare. At Conditori La Glace, a renowned pâtisserie in Copenhagen, the Alchemist describes a wedge of sportskage—a layer cake with whipped cream and crushed praline—as having “a cereal type of flavor.” (Lauren’s summation is more specific: “Teddy Grahams on steroids.”)

At a tasting, Bronson insists upon his own reading of a Georgian wine. “You can taste the wood,” he says to Sune Rosforth, a natural-wine specialist.

“There’s no wood in this,” Rosforth replies.

“But I can taste the wood.” Bronson pauses. “There’s no wood, but it’s reminiscent of wood.”

The cast members take most of their meals on the street or standing in a kitchen. Once, for no apparent reason, they dined in a parking lot adjacent to Peter Luger, the Brooklyn steak house. The thought of sitting down at a “tablescape”—a portmanteau favored by Sandra Lee, a Food Network star who arranges seasonally appropriate objets into tabletop meta-narratives on “Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee”—begins to seem insane. Place settings, starched white linens, and tiny fish forks are irrelevant to a dining experience. Even a cloth napkin starts to feel quaint. For Bronson and his cohort, who grew up in cities, all food is street food.

Bronson’s most obvious predecessor is Anthony Bourdain, the writer and former chef, whose latest series, “Parts Unknown,” airs on CNN. Bourdain jets off to exotic or otherwise underexplored sites (Libya, Borneo, New Jersey), skulks about in a black leather jacket, pounds beers, and, as the show ends, delivers shrewd cultural commentary via voice-over. A low-boiling disdain for authority informs his monologues. He understands cuisine as part of a larger narrative about place, and is hungry for authentic, revelatory experiences. Yet this way of thinking becomes its own kind of trap, in which authenticity is inextricably (and confusingly) linked to disenfranchisement, and meals become polemics.

By contrast, Bronson’s show suggests that to think of food as possessing any kind of cultural currency—to interpret it as a political choice—is to misunderstand appetite. Much of the humor hinges upon lampooning fussy, toadying conversations about cuisine. “Why are we eating food we don’t like?” the Alchemist asks his friends, halfway through breakfast at a dim-sum restaurant in Queens, on a special, 420-themed episode. In the next scene, they leave.

To the casual viewer, it might seem that every episode of “F*ck, That’s Delicious” is 420-themed. Per stoner lore, the numbers four and twenty as shorthand for marijuana use originated with a group of high-school students in San Rafael, California: one day in 1971, at 4:20 P.M., they set out to find an abandoned cannabis field using a treasure map. (Whether they found any marijuana is unclear.) Bronson appears befuddled by the term. “420 is such a ridiculous fucking thing, is it not?” he asks. “What exactly is 420—what happened on that day, what happened at that time, on that day, does anyone know exactly what happened?”

He and the Alchemist are huddled outside. The Alchemist is often portrayed as the show’s straight man, a rawboned dude who doesn’t much care about food beyond its caloric utility. (“No one hates food like me,” he jokes, during a meal in Barcelona.) He chews on a toothpick. “People get high,” he says.

Marijuana is ubiquitous on the show. “Take this away,” Bronson says, holding a blunt at the start of the 420 episode. He stares mournfully out a car window, and sighs. Ducks quack on a nearby river. His eyes close. “This is a very special ‘F*ck, That’s Delicious’ special,” he announces, and cracks up. Later, at Fedoroff’s Roast Pork, in Williamsburg, he helps the owner, Dave Fedoroff, prepare a mélange of chopped steak, long hots, fried onions, and cheese sauce, which they ladle atop a cardboard boat of French fries. “This is the best idea you could have probably thought of,” someone concludes.

In Season 2, the crew travels to Italy, ostensibly to eat at Osteria Francescana, in Modena, which has three Michelin stars. (“Who the fuck is Michelin, to give a fucking star? What do they make, tires?” Bronson wonders in a later episode.) Bronson takes his lasagna outside and stands on the sidewalk. Afterward, he meets up with Mario Batali in Rome. Batali seems vaguely disappointed by Bronson’s energy level. He has to pound repeatedly on the window of an S.U.V. to wake him up. “Is this how it rolls, normally?” Batali asks the camera. “This guy shows up stoned, and that’s the TV show?”

A second Viceland series starring Bronson, “The Untitled Action Bronson Show,” premières this week. The thirty-minute show—a kind of deranged “Emeril Live,” in which Bronson cooks and muses in the Munchies test kitchen, alongside special guests—will air Monday through Thursday at 11:30 P.M.

I attended a recent taping in Brooklyn. The mood was chaotic but joyful, as if Bronson were hosting a rowdy dinner party. The cameras seemed nearly incidental. The Alchemist was there. A house band, the Special Victims Unit, played funk. The chef Billy Durney, of Hometown Bar-B-Que, a smokehouse in Red Hook, prepared chunks of beef brisket, which he served on slices of white bread, with chopped onion and pickle chips. The air was sweet with weed and barbecue sauce. Bronson appeared deeply pleased. “It tastes so good I have to step outside,” he said, wandering off the set. A camera followed.

The Haitian-born rapper and musician Wyclef Jean arrived. He and Bronson shared a plate of seasoned mango, as Jean explained that mangoes are one of Haiti’s biggest exports. “This is a decent mango,” Bronson said. “But you can tell it’s from Queens.” Another natural-wine specialist, Isabelle Legeron—Bronson seems to favor raw and organic wines—handed out blindfolds and opened several bottles. They emptied quickly. By the end of the taping, Bronson was banging on a cowbell, still blindfolded, while Jean rolled around on the floor, barefoot, playing an electric guitar.

There was little separation between cast and crew, between on set and off set; the process of shooting the show appeared to be an essential component of the show itself. This sort of transparency is fundamental to Viceland’s aesthetic and its ideological mission: no faking it. Wine is swallowed, never dribbled into a spittoon. Food is for enjoying. The only true sin is affectation. ♦