If you want the fantasy of film and television to disintegrate like a poorly tempered chocolate shell, “visiting the set” is usually a surefire way to bring on a dose of reality. Epic movie locations turn out to be a big green cube in a disused carpark; that cosy bar from your favourite drama series is actually a chaotic corner of a suburban studio. Not for nothing did the Wizard Of Oz once yell, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!”
It followed, then, that the offer of a visit to the set of MasterChef Australia back in January felt like an invitation to almost certain disappointment: surely seeing how the sausage is (occasionally, literally) made would bring the magic of MasterChef crumbling down. What if the workroom turned out to be the size of a studio apartment? Is the famed MasterChef pantry just a close shot on a local Coles supermarket? Are the judges really eating all that food?
As it turned out, none of the above were true. Yes, the workroom is as grand and imposing as it looks. When I entered the MasterChef pantry, I felt a little like Homer Simpson visiting the Land Of Chocolate, dancing around and thinking about what I’d grab in a hurry. The MasterChef garden is, truly, one of the most glorious things I’ve ever seen. Its denizens (some are now well-established, mature plants) are lovingly tended off-site year-round, then appear at the Royal Melbourne Showgrounds for the shoot, as if by magic. Of all the glimpses behind the curtain, wandering through the barrels and containers where home-runs of previous seasons have been plucked in a hurry (strawberry gum! Warrigal greens!) was the most entrancing.
I visited in January during the filming of All Stars Week – by now well-established in MasterChef lore as a venerable blend of hero worship and psychic agony. It was the episode which aired on Tuesday night, when Luke Nguyen put the bottom three of the week – Adi Nevgi, Grace Jupp and Theo Loizou – through a pressure test. The task: recreate his famed phở (pause for orchestral sting) without the recipe.
The other contestants gasped from the gantry. The legendary ingredient bench groaned under a cornucopia of fresh herbs, cuts of meat and other items the contestants would need to figure out how much of to use. The fragrant aroma of Nguyen’s phở filled the space, so rich it felt like you could float around on it, like cartoon characters smelling a freshly baked pie.
And yes, the memory of all this is now bittersweet.
When I think of Jock Zonfrillo, who died in May, I hear Jimmy Barnes singing The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond to eulogise his mate. Watching MasterChef this season has been, for many, a conflicting experience: a joy to see Zonfrillo doing what he loved, alongside his mentee Andy Allen and co-host Melissa Leong, but uncanny nevertheless.
Death comes for us all, but it’s strange how the loss of those in the public eye can stir up long-dormant emotions. I have struggled to watch, even as a card-carrying MasterChef Australia nut (recapping the show ranks among the most fun things I have ever done as a writer) – and keeping the secrets of the set visit until the episode has been a strange experience. This mundane little professionalism of observing a publicity embargo is, I suppose, just one of the many ways in which life goes on, but it has also been an exercise in magical thinking: hey, weren’t we all at the Showgrounds together just days ago?
Like all of the judges (and Nguyen), Zonfrillo was a delight: engaged and engaging, even in a rushed chat with a visiting writer during a camera reset. I did my best (once a teacher’s pet … ) to dazzle the judges with my own history of Royal Show cookery triumph: Allen, always eager for a dessert, was particularly enthusiastic; Leong as glam and graceful as ever.
We were only on set for the initial burst of manic energy as the pressure test began (yes, that big clock is just as stressful to see ticking down in person). In the end, Theo and his “spot-on” noodles triumphed. Grace, alas, was undone by Nguyen’s deceptively simple dish. Even though her noodles were praised as “silky”, an ill-fated decision to roast the meat and bones made her phở broth “greasy”. At the episode’s end, she hung up her apron.
All television production is stressful; I’m sure there are plenty of days when those in the MasterChef kitchen, both behind and in front of the camera, want to clobber someone or everyone with a leg of mutton. But the overwhelming sense I got was that the warm feeling we get when watching the show at home is not entirely a confection of editing and musical cues. Zonfrillo was full of good grace, humour and warmth. Though he was not immune to a terrible pun, he was also quick to offer solace to contestants overwhelmed by the pressure of the competition. And then there was that infectious, Basil Brush-esque laugh.
As the contestants and viewers discovered, the secret ingredient in Nguyen’s Pho Suon Bo is bull’s penis. Addressing the contestants, he fumbled his line, asking them, “Have you ever eaten penis?” The team quickly reset so he could add the essential descriptor (“bull’s penis” he corrected, chuckling), but it was too late. The “ooh er, matron” overtones were too much to resist, and Zonfrillo’s laugh rang out around the shed like a klaxon. Surrounded by friends and colleagues, breathing in the heady aromas of good, honest food, and laughing at a gag about a bull’s knob: something tells me he’d like to be remembered like that.
MasterChef Australia continues on Network Ten
