There’s no beating the high drama on Masterchef
Now that there’s no shame in watching television every single night for the rest of my life, I’m making all kinds of delicious discoveries. First up is Masterchef: The Professionals which beats, whips and scrambles the snoring, boring Bake Off, no question.
Is it just me or is everyone else a bit exhausted by the remorseless humility of the stubbornly downbeat GBBO contestants? Sure, they express their personalities in their weird cocoa-nibs-with-celery-salt-anda-dash-of-home-brewedkombucha profiteroles, but that’s not enough to whet my appetite.
Masterchef on the other hand was gripping. Not just because half of the quietly confident contenders couldn’t rustle up a decent eggs Benedict with a sriracha hollandaise against the clock with Greg Wallace and Monica Galetti wittering at them and got a roasting for their trouble.
The other half were variously floored by a pudding comprising strawberry ripple cream and Italian meringues. The sugar syrup must reach 121 degrees, didn’t you know?
But it was the back stories that had me begging for seconds: Wesley was a private chef in Essex (so much gossip to ladle) whose hollandaise sauce split so catastrophically he had to hastily fashion a new one – which was so raw, none of the judges wanted to taste it.
Aaron was a member of a crack kitchen team employed by a single family in Oxfordshire. No budget was imposed as he dreamed up recipes and cooked for the head of the house. Just the head of the house, mind. Another chef cooked for Madame and the children. Sliced turkey every morning for the pets.
Wha-a-at? That snippet was far more interesting than artfully macerating soft fruit with chilli and tarmac. Is Madame French? Why does the Head of the House (I feel he would insist on capitals) need a great big chef all to himself? Is he a vegan with allergies? While Madame is a Parisian who insists the children will be dining on foie grasstuffed artichokes and red wine reductions.
Frankly, I’m desperate to find out, so I’ll be dipping in (double dipping if I’m allowed, Monsieur?) again in the hope of discovering not how the other half cooks, but how the top one per cent eats.