Tag Archives: gregg wallace

Celebrity Masterchef: Your 15 minutes is up

imageI actually quite enjoy this version, truth be told. Not so much the personnel in question, who range from quite endearing to making you want to put your fist through the wall, but because they have some rather good challenges in this incarnation. The ingredient recognition test was always one of my favourites and I’m pleased to see it’s made a comeback, even though some of the items are insultingly simple. Red pepper, seriously?! Although I’d suppose you’d technically get brownie points for knowing it is a bell pepper, but this wasn’t adhered to.

The disparity between competence levels is both amusing and frustrating and makes you realise all the more they had to take who they could get, so thinly stretched is the ‘talent’ available. These Celeb versions littering the schedules rely on us, the ever-slavering public, giving two figs as to whether so-and-so who once presented something on an obscure cable channel is now able to boil an egg satisfactorily. You do get one or two bona fide big names per series, Vic Reeves being one this time round. Shame he couldn’t have been paired with Ulrika Jonsson. Or Ulrika-ka-ka, as she’s better known from their time on Shooting Stars. He might have relaxed her slightly. She looks like she’s being almost constantly tortured, which makes you wonder why she’s subjected herself to it. Oh yes, for cash probably. Continue reading

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Masterchef: This little Masterchef went to market….

‘I’m a pig in a sweetshop’. Ooh Wallace, with your Wildean bon mots, you are rillllly spoiling us. Actually, he said ‘kid’ not pig, but he doesn’t enunciate properly and it’s all much of a muchness with our fruit and veg man anyway. Yep, Masterchef, in all its infuriating glory, is back. So, what’s new? Well, they’ve got their names embroidered on their aprons, rather than one of those badges you get at conferences, so the budget must have been upped. Anything else? Yep, there’s a new challenge. ‘It’s called the market test’, announced Torode proudly, as if his toddler had just taken its first step. ‘We’ve built you a market.’ Woah, slow down there with these breakneck speed ideas. I thought he was going to say he’d built a brand new combine harvester!  Continue reading

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Masterchef: The gladiators

Guest post by Maggie Gordon-Walker

masterchef professionalsSo here we are in the latter stages of the competition and we can all rest easy. Any competitor who isn’t young, white and male has been eliminated. Phew, that’s better isn’t it? It being the Pro version we need a man to voiceover it so here’s Sean Pertwee (not exactly the eponymous Doctor is it, Sean?) giving us the lowdown on the sous vides, the purees and the foams. Ah yes, the foams, that irritate Marcus Wareing to such an extent that he’s in more of a lather than the foam is, which is puddle-like by the time the judges get to it. No surprise really. The strictures of the filming mean the food is always cold when the judges taste it (someone who’d been on the show told me).  Continue reading

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MasterChef: Dougal fluff hats & other sweet surprises

MasterChef lost me as a regular viewer this year because of all the X Factor style nonsense early on. Plus my cooking show viewing quota is currently being diverted watching too many suckling pigs get slaughtered on the altar of the Great British Menu. But I caught last night’s MasterChef, and I’m glad I did, because there was a guest appearance by Michel Roux, the daddy of both lovely Michel Roux Jnr and pastry cooking in general. He was giving the remaining four contestants a masterclass in making the ultra-tricky croquembouche. But here all my (probably fantasy) credibility as a foodie deserted me, because in my eyes, this towering French choux ball structure looked like a heap of Pizza Express doughballs piled up into the shape of a wizard hat with a load of hairy fluff from Dougal (the Magic Roundabout dog) scattered over the top with random almonds stuck on for no reason I could discern.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore puddings and I adore Michel Roux, and eating any of the wonders that come out his legendary kitchen would make me a very happy woman indeed. I just didn’t quite get why a croquembouche is held in such high regard.

Actually, I blame Iceland (the frozen food manufacturer, not the country that produced Björk). Their ghastly Kerry Katona/Jason Donovan pile ’em high ‘party’ ads have ruined the joy of choux pastry as a luxury item for me. I can’t look at profiteroles with respect any more, and essentially, a croquembouche is a monster pyramid of profiteroles minus the melted chocolate that is my favourite part anyway. With heaps of spun sugar. Life, in my view, is too effing short to spin sugar. Continue reading

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MasterChef: Off their trollies

I happened to speak to someone who had made it to the very end of the (very long) MasterChef process a number of years ago. A life-changing experience? Yes. But they also reminded me that there is no money involved in winning MasterChef, and you don’t get paid whilst you’re engaged in the process either – when you’re not earning money from your day job. Success gives you a lot of exposure, you learn an incredible amount and it offers the winner the opportunity to work in a top professional kitchen (unpaid) but for people without serious financial stability or a high-earning partner, even for those who make it through the weeks of competition, this is one tough gig.

And now they’ve changed the set and the format. This is a ‘culinary cathedral’, according to the blurb. Well, I’m a food lover and it’s not my kind of church. And the style is X factor apparently. With ‘auditions’. Since I don’t watch the X factor, I can’t comment on that (is it because they’ve brought their families along, in what feels, watching, like a precursor to a massive and really weird church picnic?). And worst of all, I could not believe my eyes when I realised contestants are now expected to provide their own food. In they trekked, these gaggles of hopefuls with their carrier bags and picnic hampers and kids and partners and eyes full of hope that gets as crushed as their new potatoes as it all goes horribly wrong for most of them. And that’s exactly why I don’t want to see the families or hear the backstories. So many dreams of leaving current jobs, so many nights reading poncy cookbooks, all boils down to some especially bad trifle and lumpen mash. Following Grace Dent concurrently on twitter helps with this actually, providing the nice acidic edge you need to cut through the cloying treacle of India Fisher’s voiceover.

Never mind the cameras and audience, it’s such a strange and unnatural cooking environment. It feels more like It’s a Food Knockout than a culinary test. The strangest of all is the last-ten-minutes cooking part of the format when they have to pack part-cooked food from one part of the set onto a TROLLEY and wheel it though to finish the dish off then serve up to Gregg and John. They are perched on their boy band (Blind Date?) stools with a pile of immaculate white Aprons of Joy to give out to The Chosen Ones. The apron ‘prize’ makes even the Generation Game cuddly toy seem generous. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s ‘symbolic’.

In the words of John Torode to one poor contestant ‘Everything is soft and wet. You don’t have to chew on anything. It just disappears’.

Posted by Inkface

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Lustbox: Michel Roux Jnr

Woe, woe, misery and woe. The light has gone from my weekday evenings. And when Normal Masterchef returns with Gregg the Pudding Oinker, with it will come John Torode, all Australian and shouty rather than the pale and lovely Michel Roux. Very few people get Michel-as-lustbox. He is cadaverous, pale and wears truly terrible jackets. He looks like he needs a big sandwich made of Maman’s caramelised bananas. He has the gauntness of an etiolated marathon runner who never gets out during the daytime (which he is). Despite all, he is the King of Cooking Programme Lust.

Michel has is sternness combined with (occasionally) kindly mercy, extreme delicacy and exacting standards. This is very, very sexy indeed. One would need to try very hard not to be disappointing in any way whatsoever. The pressure to achieve the highest standards of taste and presentation would be immense. Swirl those nipple tassels unevenly and see his left eyebrow raise almost imperceptibly. Let your moustache go unbleached for a day too long and see a very small moue of disappointment. Serve the sushi from your bellybutton slightly too warm and Michel might sigh, deeply, painedly. But the joy, the pure joy, of making Michel smile…oooh! Oui Chef!

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Masterchef: The palate of an angel

Masterchef has hung up its collective apron for this season, and there’s a new King of the Kitchen in the rather attractive form of Dhruv Baker.

What have we learned? Well, we learned from Gregg Wallace that Dhruv has “the palate of an angel.” If I ever ponder angels, I don’t normally think about their food-tasting capabilities, but I suppose you might do if you think of cookery as a high art form, as Gregg and his little mate John Torode do.

I do know, because India Fisher repeatedly told me in such an insistent and breathy voice that she couldn’t be ignored, that all the finalists could “produce exceptional plates of food,” “deliver flavour,” “wow the judges” etc etc and blah blah blah.

India has a go in the Masterchef kitchen

Masterchef this year teetered between must-see and must-turn-off TV, and the turn-off bit was in a huge part thanks to India Fisher’s narration. Her voice is beyond irritating, and this is not helped by scripts that are so repetitive they sound like they’ve been churned out by a primitive script generating machine. In fact I’m not entirely convinced that India Fisher isn’t in reality a Scriptbot 500. For next season could we please have someone else doing the voiceover? My vote would go to Richard Armitage or Steven Mackintosh, either of whom could make chicken quenelles sound like something sexy rather than a blob of chickeny mush.

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