Wednesday 7th December

I have always disliked these so-called reality television programmes that are everywhere now on television, none more so than Masterchef.  The competition element is always contrived; after all – why can there not be two or even three master-chefs, if they are equally capable.  There is always the silliness of having an imposed time limit, as if in reality ones guests would walk out if you hadn’t quite got the dish correct in the allotted forty-five minutes. And the silly music and the almost gestation length pause before they announce (in no particular order) the survivors or the losers, and the inane comments from the competitors, stating in almost identical but I am sure well-rehearsed lines how much staying in the competition means to them, I mean who cares how much it matters to them; whether they can cook is really all that matters. The thing I hated most though were the commentators John Torode and Greg Wallace, with their shouted “Only five minutes left” and equally stupid statements – not even sentences half the time, “Boy, can this boy really cook” and “Now, the real competition starts” and the way they kept barking at each other just like rutting stags in the mating season.  Still, I kept watching because the thing with all these shows is once you start watching you are hooked; I think I was watching for the enjoyment of seeing the flaws as much as for who won, because again, it really doesn’t matter who wins, it is the doing of the thing that is why you watch – to see the achievements and the disasters, and to nod quietly to oneself, ‘Yes, I could make that, that wasn’t so hard’.

But suddenly the programme has excelled itself – the pattern is actually usually the other way round, after an exciting start each series becomes weaker and they start introducing sillier and sillier aspects, so that you end up with motorbikes on ice, tossing pancakes to a Samba – well, you get the picture.  But tra-la-la on the trumpet and enter Michel Roux Junior with his Gallic good looks, tiny graying beard, piercing eyes and superb skill and knowledge and the even more formidable Monica Galetti, who is knowledgeable, intelligent and so good in front of the camera that if the food weren’t so delicious you could almost eat her instead. John Torode has wandered off to grill his kippers elsewhere leaving a gentler, funnier, and set against the other two, a kinder Greg as judge.  Michel is always reasonable too, he never neglects to say something good about the food, and he is precise in telling them exactly what is lacking or not quite perfect.  The contestants are already chefs in training so the standards are that much higher, no longer your talented amateurs, but people who already can cook.  And the result is not only culinary excellence but a great and entertaining show, there is still the irritating voice-over and the contestants telling you how much it means to them, and the sad shots of the losers hanging up their aprons and walking out head hung low, but suddenly it is about real cooking and taste and technique and presentation. I love it, and even though I rarely cook properly these days I feel I am learning something new each week.  I just wish Michel Roux Junior could come round to my house for a little candle-lit soirree where I could try out my French and maybe buy a new frock, though I am sure my soufflé might not be quite up to his standards we could have fun trying it out.  Hahaha