The Zantidote To Masterchef: Britain’s Delia Smith

Once again the fatiguing fanfare of Masterchef reverberates on our airwaves – the omnipresent white noise of its call-to-prayer an inescapable thorn. TV, supermarkets, banks, billboards, phone banners, boardwalks, hot air balloons, surreptitious cloud formations – we’re constantly headbutted by the logo and a branding campaign hungrier than Matt Preston.

In the ’90s stand up comedians were made the new rock stars – sell-out stadium tours, big budget TV shows and a new-found sex appeal that transformed the funny bone into a veritable G-spot. The overweight, over-boozed, over-amused backroom stand-up comedian now oozed charisma. The habitual lifeblood of booze and cocaine morphing into a haloed sex elixir that lubricated the laughing gear and loosened our collective brassiere. Now the tides have changed, and TV chefs have usurped comedians as the unlikely heroes – the microphone replaced by a dry ice omitting sausage garnished with edible flowers.

Out of the frying pan, into the limelight – not an easy transition for these nocturnal creatures more akin to operating in the steamy high-pressured violent vortex of a commercial kitchen. But many have prospered – Ramsey, Oliver, Harriot, all amplifying their personalities to dramatise what is otherwise a fairly mundane household chore: cooking.

And the Australian Masterchef leads the way in the bells-and-whistles department. Over the years it’s gradually ramped up the theatre visually and sonically – Armageddonous build ups, orchestral cliff hangers, ethereal coming-of-age acts, earth shattering dismissals and a court marshalling panel casted by Disney. The motley core of a cravat-wearing 10-foot cuddly bear, an affable London cabbie and the inimitable Mini-Mee-Gordon-Ramsey, all play their blockbusting roles.

This brutal primetime overload out-dramatises most big-budget series and soap operas – CSI, Neighbours and Dr Who all statistical runts by comparison. Masterchef best demonstrates that the collaboration between reality and meticulously scripted theatre is the alchemy of modern television.

Or is it?

For many, louder isn’t better; brighter isn’t nicer – some prefer the carousel than the rollercoaster. Back in the early days of cooking programmes, the feel was different – more pedestrian-paced, with mild-mannered presenters and mild-mannered recipes. The shows were softly spoken and conducted in pastel shaded linoleum clad kitchens, with only the gentle chinks of crockery as a backing track. The sex appeal wasn’t a garish touchpoint, although it often pulsed politely below the surface. And this bygone era can no better be demonstrated than by Delia Smith, an English rose that quietly built and empire during the 1980 and ’90s. She had all of the above – a feline grace, disarming girl-next-door tics and a recipe book from pre-war Britain. Dominating airwaves, her shows were a homely canter that simmered in the background, a bastion of English reservedness and hearty pastry-based food – Heaven’s Kitchen. Some would say these were the halcyon days of cooking shows – never mind the slightly sexiest vision of a housewife obediently ensconced behind a cooker – this feminine touch transmitted a maternal warmth, the floury bosom to rest your head and watch the incantation of favourites like the Shepherds Pie, Toad In The Hole, crusty tarts and iridescent sponges. But these quaint afternoon sojourns didn’t last, the masculinised revolution rudely bastardised the format, and Delia was replaced with quasi-geezers and creased-headed combustible bullies.

Enjoy this soothing piece of nostalgia and wonder why things got so over-egged.  Mantis Kane

This article was published in its original format at zantidote.com.

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