Why I’m addicted to Australian MasterChef

Why is Australian MasterChef so much better than the English version? You’d think, with a population less than a third of ours, the smaller talent pool would make the Antipodean edition look like thin gruel. But a bit like with the cricket and the rugby, size clearly isn’t everything. UK MasterChef now resembles one of those joyless austerity dishes you cobble together from crusty leftovers you found languishing in the fridge. But the Aussie one has had my entire family addicted and yearning for more for the past fortnight.

I suppose it’s partly down to the way Australia sees itself. Probably this bears no resemblance to the way Australia actually is: the happy-go-lucky, put-another-shrimp-on-the-barbie-and-don’t-forget-the-Aerogard Oz of popular legend is as distant a memory as the England of long shadows on county grounds, the sound of leather on willow and warm beer. But if you based your opinion of Oz on its MasterChef, you’d want to emigrate there yesterday.

Everyone is happy – except when they think they’ve fluffed their slow-cooked duck (Robbie) or blown their beef rendang, which they’d expected to nail because they learned it in Bali and it was the dish that first got them into cooking (Cath). Those telegenic tears, however, are just an excuse for even sunnier outbreaks of communal happiness as the other contestants pile in for a group hug and words of sympathy. Why it’s a wonder that anyone ever gets to win on this show, given that everyone appears to be rooting for their competitors.

Sometimes the endless positivity can become a trifle exhausting. I particularly dread the elimination rounds where contestants have to put on the feared black apron and cook for their survival. They’re great for generating the ‘jeopardy’, obviously, that make shows like this so nail-biting.