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MasterChef is back, emboldened by the strange and giddy euphoria of an enforced refresh. For nigh on 20 years, the BBC’s premier cookery contest was judged by John Torode and Gregg Wallace and was just sort of … there. Not bad, but not very exciting either. That the hosts might have become a little crusty and stale wasn’t widely noticed or discussed.
One unsavoury year of allegations, investigations and cancellations later, not one but both of the show’s long-serving overlords have abruptly departed. Yet there’s something freeing about an unplanned change and MasterChef, happily, has embraced that by hiring two relatively low-profile women to replace the old men: season 22 is brought to you by Myrtle chef patron Anna Haugh and Guardian restaurant critic Grace Dent.
It’s a risk. Dent and Haugh have long media careers behind them and have previously filled in as judges in the MC universe, but their debut as captains of the flagship is a step up. More famous names were surely available. The early signs, however, are that MasterChef has emerged from disgrace with a clean pair of heels. It’s warmer, funnier, sharper.
There are blips of first-night awkwardness, regular rookie-host stuff that time will smooth: Haugh does a wide-eyed half-smile when a contestant is outlining their intentions that sometimes makes her look as if she’s nervously humouring a maniac, while Dent wrestles with the ancient conundrum of what to do with your hands when you’re standing still with nothing to lean on. The fact that generic reaction shots – encouraging but not simpering! Neither a grin nor a scowl! – are about 40% of the job is another challenge.
But Haugh and Dent have the important things nailed, beginning with the unique dynamic to which MasterChef judges adhere. They’re both experts but only one is a chef, so one’s more expert than the other. The non-chef can’t fully defer and has to give their own insights, but without overstepping – waiting for the boss to go first and mopping up any leftover observations is the secret to navigating that. Haugh and Dent’s balance is spot-on and, since the obvious way for the secondary judge to earn their corn is to be good at phrasing their reactions to the food, hiring a professional food critic for the job makes sense. While all that’s going on, the judges must remember that there aren’t any traditional presenters alongside them to put the contestants at ease, so they can’t be aloof: in Great British Bake Off terms, they are simultaneously Mel and Sue and Paul and Mary.
This is where the newcomers really improve on the old team. Haugh is friendly and not afraid to joke with a contestant or express delight – so far her two favourite things seem to be precise timekeeping, and butter – but her experience is formidable. She will look you in the eye and tell you without pity that your vanilla and tahini cream has split, or that you should have binned your runny hollandaise and started again, instead of trying to rescue it with late, raw flour. With more licence to entertain, Dent never pulls focus from the cooking but does hint at a conspiratorial rapport with the contestants, often looking as if she is suppressing a laugh or a camp snarl.
As well as the show now enjoying more rewarding interactions between judges and amateur cooks, the move away from middle-aged male figureheads allows for hosts who simply look more interesting on screen in what is, after all, a visual medium. Contrasting with Haugh’s pristine chef’s whites is Dent’s lacquered quiff, chunky jewellery and cocktail-dress combo, a mid-century glam aesthetic that was almost entirely absent from the Wallace era.
The best thing you can say about MC’s new MCs, though, is that they’ve clearly got this whole thing under control, so we can stop worrying about them and concentrate on episode one’s first steps towards awarding this year’s MasterChef trophy. The battle for that coveted chrome coil starts with an eclectic half-dozen hopefuls who bring Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Nepali and Caribbean flavours, which mix easily with standard British fare: there are lentil and onion fritters (“bullets of joy”, says Dent) and chicken and cabbage jhol momo, and steak and chips and sponge cake, too.
Without much time to get to know anyone – two of the six cooks are gone for ever by the end of the second challenge, a poached-egg brunch – the show is skilled at sketching personalities, from relatively new cook Matt, who doesn’t seem a likely winner since a lot of his home cooking is for his dog, to Sabina, who tears up when she explains how she’s honouring generations of family culinary knowhow. They, and MasterChef, feel as if they’re being cared for a little better now.
