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Sparkle (7)
OH. MY. GOD. I have been dying to write this post. Dying! But I was contractually obligated to keep mum about it until after the show was cast. I think I’m in the clear though by now.
Anyways, I did the Masterchef open call this year and it was quite interesting indeed. Please, take a second to wipe off the spit coffee from your electronic device.
Much better. As I was saying, I have no television and I barely watch Hulu these days, but even I knew about this show. The concept of Masterchef is simple and formulaic. The show starts off with 100 amateur cooks who are chosen nationwide to compete for the title of “Masterchef” awarded by Gordon Ramsay, Joe Bastianich and Graham Elliott. The contestants are flown out to the cesspool of the nation, Los Angeles, where the pool is cut to 50 in the first episode, then down to 16 in the following. Those 16 contestants will then, in true reality show style, be subjected to a variety of well edited cooking challenges and well slung barbs until one person is left. The winner gets a quarter million dollars and a cookbook deal.
For anyone who knows me, this type of thing is probably the last thing that anyone would ever expect me to do. I hate reality television. Some may argue that I also have a tentative grasp on reality. But I do like money, and I would punt a baby seal across the tundra to have my own book published.
Seven AM Call Time
Regardless, the whole experience was rather fascinating to witness. I was surrounded by hundreds of people who loved to cook and all who had some aspiration of being somebody, myself included. It was amazing to be surrounded by people who had filtered in from small towns and smaller cities for the chance to stand in line and have their two minutes of fame. Everyone had aspirations that they were going to make the cut and were willing to wait the hours in the line, in the cold for their pastry brush with greatness, Joe Bastanich, who was attending casting that Saturday.
All of us standing out there in the cold were sleep deprived and overexcited. We had all been forewarned that the doors opened at 10 am, but it was suggested that we arrive early (doors opened at seven!) to ensure that we would get in and make a great impression first. I assumed nobody would have been batshit enough to stand in near freezing weather for hours, that I was going to be parking it in front of the location first in line. I was totally wrong. By the time I arrived at 7:05 in the morning, the line already snaked down the entrance, through the atrium between the cross streets and threatened to spill over onto the street below. I queued up, silently wished that I hadn’t chosen to drink that second cup of coffee with no bathroom in sight, and got to filling out my twelve page application.
I carefully listed my favorite famous cooking personalities (McGee and Escoffier), my six personal references, my cooking experience and what I might not want disclosed on national television. I listed my emergency contacts, my tattoos, checked boxes that indicated that I had no health insurance. But my eyes were opened when I had to answer what my “Signature Dishes” were.
“Signature Dishes”? That question is when I suspected that I may not be a great fit for this show, but that I may have started thinking like a cook. I don’t think in terms of signature dishes from standard recipes. I don’t have a famous pie passed down for generations or a stew that my mother made. I think about food in terms of taste, texture, season and personal interest. Lamely, I listed omelets and a couple other things that I liked to eat rather than my grandmother’s famous brisket and something copied from the Food Network.
Look there in the center, its a tiny restaraunteur
Eventually things got underway that morning. After many false starts and insincere “I know you’re going to win!” statements between linemates, we were
