Banana bread won’t cut it with these boys
MasterChef: The Professionals BBC1, Tuesday-Thursday
The Den RTÉ One, Sunday
Cloch Le Carn – Brendan Bowyer RTÉ One, Tuesday
Belturbet: A Bomb That Time Forgot RTÉ One, Monday
HAS there ever been a year when so many of us cooked from scratch? Largely denied the chance to eat out, we took to the cooker with hitherto inconceivable zeal, and while many never got much beyond making the starter for sourdough, or churning out endless loaves of banana bread, it’s fairly safe to say almost everyone had a go.
That said, no matter how proficient we all became, it was pretty obvious from the final of MasterChef: The Professionals on BBC1 that we have a long way to go. I can’t remember the standard being so high among the last three standing, and every single dish they made (with the singular exception of lamb’s brain) was a work of art, at least visually.
We had Bart from the Netherlands, a terrific chef but something of a technician. Then there was Alex, just 25-yearsold, but a culinary wizard doing it all in memory of the grandad he worshipped. And, finally, we had Santosh, one of the most memorable characters in any reality show in living memory.
At 12, he was a labourer digging canals in his native Nepal, sent off to work every day with a packed lunch by his widowed mother. By his midtwenties, he had 90 staff working to him in a five-star hotel in India, and then made his way to London. His ambition was to introduce the world to Nepalese cooking, and he certainly did that. Half the time, I had no idea what the ingredients were, never mind the finished dishes, but they were exquisite. Going on what judges Marcus Wareing, Monica Galetti and Gregg Wallace said, every single one was bursting with flavour thanks to almost sacred combinations of spices.
None of this would matter if the food was simply prepared, but it was quite clear that Santosh cooked every morsel with love, for his mother and his motherland. When he spoke of his work as being a tribute to the woman who raised him, his emotion was evident; even I found my lower lip giving a little wobble.
Humble and grateful for all life had given him, Santosh proved to be the man 2020 needed, one who reminded us of what we have, not what we have lost. Sadly, in the final challenge, he did lose, as young Alex took the title. I wasn’t disappointed, because any of the three would have been a worthy winner, but the indelible mark left by this gentle, happy soul was joyful. In fact, the whole programme was a balm. The judges were, throughout, hugely supportive, and never mean or cruel with criticism when it was merited.
Far too often, reality TV relies on shock value, driven by larger-thanlife characters who boss and bully to get their way. Watching a programme based solely on passion and skill was a welcome respite from the likes even of I’m A Celebrity, which I actually enjoy. If Santosh ever goes down the route of appearing on that show, I suspect he could do something quite wonderful with a pig’s testicle just by adding a sprinkling of nutmeg and some juniper berries.
The biggest success of the la latter part of the year has b been the revival of The Den. When Ray D’Arcy said last Sunday that tonight’s would be the last episode ever, I heard myself saying ‘No!’ aloud. It’s a very rare thing to find a show that has a appeal for everyone from fo four to 94, but The Den has it down to a fine art, blendin ing visuals for the young w with a bit of bawdiness for th the adults and a huge dollop o of surreal humour for those of us wh who like that sort of thing.
The ongoing threat from a rampant Ted last week was hilarious, though maybe my teatime glass of wine amplified that somewhat. Nonetheless, D’Arcy looks like he’s having the time of his life when, on his own chat show, he often looked like he’d rather be ironing his own leg.
So, in advance, thanks to Zig, Zag and Dustin too for giving us a show with a huge heart, not least when it featured the families playing for prizes. In a year when we’ve all been expected to be adult as we ever will be in our lives, the chance to be a big kid for an hour every Sunday has been a cherished valve to release some of the pressures of pandemic life.
No such respite for the families of the two teenagers killed by a loyalist bomb in Belturbet in 1972. Geraldine O’Reilly and Paddy Stanley were in the wrong place at the wrong time – she buying a bag of chips, he in a phonebox ringing his family to say he wouldn’t be home that night to Offaly because he was delayed on a job – and became just two more victims of senseless carnage. The pain still etched on the faces of their siblings as told in RTÉ’s documentary Belturbet: A Bomb That Time Forgot reminds us all that while we have lived our lives troubled only by the inevitable grief at losing a parent or other family member, we at least can rationalise our pain. To wait almost five decades and still have no justice is horribly cruel, and a life without closure is a life than cannot be fully lived.
One life that actually was well lived was that of Brendan Bowyer, and RTÉ’s Cloch Le Carn told it in all its Technicolor, from early success with The Royal Showband all the way to Las Vegas, alcohol abuse and redemption.
Bowyer’s death this year brought renewed focus on his work and the pleasure it gave him. So if you’re alone this Christmas, treat yourself well. Cook a nice dinner Santoshstyle and, when no one is looking, do the Hucklebuck.