Meet contestant 84 at MasterChef Canada
I find the website for the open casting call to MasterChef Canada online and fill out the form. Having written for online magazines about frugal recipes, as well as writing for the “Champagne Tastes on a Beer Budget” blog, I figure I have as good a chance as anyone of getting an audition. After a dose of liquid courage, I remember how I won an inter-office carrot cake baking contest. That’s the carrot cake that wins over the hearts of folks who don’t even like carrot cake. I finish my cocktail, and hit “send.”
I get a response the next day. The emailed instructions from the casting producer include the suggestion to bring along something that will keep applicants occupied, such as a book or music. For the competition, we’re permitted to bring only one dish, and we’re informed to make sure it’s something that will keep at room temperature for hours on end, and to ensure it has adequate insulation to keep it appropriately hot or cold. There is no specific audition appointment, only the forewarning that the contestants will be let in on Aug. 6 by 7 a.m., and the auditions end at 11 p.m.
I chose to make my Carrot Cake For People Who Don’t Like Carrot Cake. It’s honestly a game changer, made with pineapple, walnuts, cardamom fresh ginger and topped with a key lime cheesecake icing. I was never really a big carrot cake fan, but this recipe is the gateway drug. I submit my entry. Here’s how my day went: 7:30 a.m.: There are more than a hundred people in line at the InterContinental Hotel at 225 Front St. W., but not all of them competitors. Some of the people are supporters — friends and family, holding signs and showing love for their favourite home chef. The atmosphere is one of optimism and nervousness. Surprisingly, everyone in line is very supportive of each other. 10 a.m.: The lineup snakes east along Front St., wraps around the block, then goes south along Simcoe St., and into the hotel’s parking ga- rage. There are approximately 150 of us. A production assistant walking down the line takes my name, checks me off a list, and hands me a wristband informing me I am No. 84. I’m near the end of the line.
11:30 a.m.: One contestant is sharing a sample of his ribs with the production crew. I can’t say if it’s an act of bribery to gain access to registration faster, or if he’s simply feeling sorry for them. Either way, he’s generated enough eye-rolling in the lineup that he could cause contact lenses to fall out. 12 p.m.: The sun has climbed over the skyscrapers and is beating down on the crowd along Simcoe and Front Sts. I follow my fellow contestants and slink into the shady space beside the entrance to the hotel. Some people lean against the planters, not having the foresight to bring collapsible, portable chairs. I resist sitting on the rim of the planter. As my grandmother would say, “planters are for decoration, not a seating arrangement.”
1:15 p.m.: I am sitting in the planter. The lack of seating has forced many to perch along the rim of the planters and place coolers and food bags out of the sun. Some coolers are immense: What’s in them? One of them is big enough for me to crawl inside.
3:30 p.m.: Oh, boy oh boy! I’m finally inside the hotel! It only took eight hours to reach the sign-in table. A well-known vegan blogger is directly in front of me.
4 p.m.: The preliminary round. Each round consists of about 30 people. I am in the final group. Three groups have gone in before us. The production crew enters the ballroom and acknowledges our fortitude: “Without you brave souls, we literally would have no show.” We are instructed to take our competing dishes out, but no plating until the crew appears and times us all with a stopwatch.
4:15 p.m.: Stopwatch time! Pandemonium reigns. We have three minutes to plate. All chefs-to-be now set their dishes on their plates, add finishing touches and garnish their dishes. We place our green judging sheets with our competition number in front of our plate. The vegan blogger plates her raw apricot crumble on a handcrafted wooden plank. Next to me, another contestant has placed her stuffed tomatoes on what appears to be authentic Greek pottery. My cake is the foodie equivalent of the Podunk County Regional Beauty Queen standing between Miss Universe and a Sports Illustrated supermodel. Let’s hope the judges find my offering has “a nice personality.”
Once the crew screams “Stop!” it’s hands-in-the-air time, and we wait.
4:30 p.m.: I am competitor D16: My Carrot Cake For People Who Don’t Like Carrot Cake is garnished with edible candied rose petals. We are instructed not to peek at our judging sheets once the dish is tasted and marked. Assessments include qualifiers such as “creativity, food knowledge and presentation.”
5 p.m.: The judges are now sequestered for deliberation. The fellow who made a sous-vide rabbit frets about making the cut. The room is full of hungry foodies, exhausted from the anticipation and waiting in line all day, surrounded by gourmet treats. The judges and crew give us spoons and forks and we eat our cre- ations. The ensuing feeding frenzy is a cross between feeding time in a shark tank and the poshest potluck I’ve ever attended.
5:15 p.m.: I made it through the first round of qualifiers! Now, onto the interview reel.
5:30 p.m.: I’ve been out in the sun since 7:30 a.m.:, and the only thing I’ve eaten by this point is a forkful of some of the most impressive dishes cooked up by local amateur chefs. I fear I have sunstroke and I might be mildly dehydrated. When the cameraman asks me, “What does food mean to you?” my eyes well up with tears. I don’t usually cry publicly. Well, maybe for Disney films, longdistance phone commercials and viral videos of marriage proposals. Now, I have to add “food-related audition reels” to the list.
I feel I redeemed my behaviour with what the interviewer calls the Mystery Box Challenge: A black opaque box is set before me, and when opened it reveals a set of wooden toys shaped like food, from a child’s grocery store game or play kitchen set.
I talk the camera through a dish called “strata,” so named for its layers that are revealed when baked. It’s a combination of slices of stale bread, soaked in a custard made of milk and eggs, and placed in a buttered dish. It’s a great way to use up awkwardly small portions of leftovers like tomato, cheese and cooked sausage by sliding it between layers.
After I hurry out of the hotel, I text Jenny Lass, a friend, fellow University of Toronto alumna and food show enthusiast.
She was a former guest judge on another cooking show, and has some experience in the mysterious ways of television cuisine. “I cried during the personal interview.”
Her reply is immediate. “That’s fantastic! They love a personal connection.”
“I don’t think it came off as intimate as much as completely unhinged.” “Even better.” Now all I have to do is wait and see if I made the cut. Like a job interview, they will only contact those who have been selected. Shooting is scheduled to begin in the fall. There is no guarantee I’ll even be on the show, however, I now have something interesting to talk about at cocktail parties. “I waited in the hot sun for over eight hours to make total strangers eat my cake.” Not your average Saturday. Naomi Szeben is a freelance food and lifestyle writer who lives in Toronto with her husband. Her work has previously appeared in online web magazines. She is currently working on writing for a series involving living frugally but fabulously within on a tight budget.
The screw screams ’Stop’ and it’s hands-in-the-air time. We wait