“My life is in that spoon”
Five minutes in and nice, benefit-of-the-doubt giving Marie was poised, clutching the Sky remote and taking aim, as a woman who has just piled an entire starter into the space that would normally occupy a small boiled egg watches her life literally pass before her eyes and in front of three judges who are wearing the collective Elnett of seven branches of Superdrug.
Having spent a lovely chunk of life some time ago watching Wil.i.am’s ever-expanding arse take up more and more of his spinny chair each week on The Voice, teamed with the unconfined rapture of screaming at the TV and splurging every expletive in my repertoire on Twitter during Masterchef, I was chomping at the bit in anticipation of ‘The Taste‘. What’s not to like? An Eggy Frenchman, a grumpy sweary yank and the fragrant occasional-tooter, Nigella Lawson? It should be frigging awesome, right?
But there’s something faintly ludicrous about the whole execution. Perhaps it’s the très yank production values. Or more likely its twenty five Python-esque oversized spoons of amateur nosh, accompanied by a man so French that his knackers clack La Marseillaise when he walks through Paris on a cold day. Then there are the constant cutaways to save us the unsavoury view of the judges struggling to fit an oversized Chinese soup spoon of braised pig cheek covered in jam in their gobs.
Surprise of the show was Nigella’s leap out of her seat to comfort the youngest contestant as he broke down in tears. Not quite the ‘Jessie J big embrace’ moment as she lightly patted him on the back before sending him on his way to not self-harm, as he can’t see bugger-all past the floppy fringe. “Toughen the fuck up” proclaims Anthony Bourdain. I can go with that; Tony must be well ‘ard to endure the industrial level of personal grooming he subjects himself to daily. I strongly suspect that his gruff demeanour is a smoke screen for the fact that he can’t actually smile. This is a look I strongly aspire to. I call it ‘Botox Chic’ and it works incredibly well with a pair of five inch heels. Unfortunately, Mr Bourdain is a mystery from the waist down until episode two.
But will I get to episode two? Well, no doubt. I still don’t quite understand what the actual point of The Taste is. Will the eventual winner take up a place on the Fourth Plinth? Will they have the finalists up on platforms like in Gladiators, using fucking gigantic spoons as pugil sticks?
Sadly, I have the attention span of a gnat and The Taste just didn’t move fast enough or have enough edge to make it work for me. I kinda couldn’t give two marinaded fucks about any of the contestants. And that is truly shocking for a woman who is known to openly weep at an SMA advert. I want to see highs and lows, personality and eccentricity and a genuine punch up or two between the judges. Or at least Nigella out-cussing Bourdain by calling him a cunt and cracking him across the bridge of his nose with her spoon like he’s a bad puppy. That’d be quite hot.
In fact, I’ll leave the final word to my husband, (who was about the most entertaining aspect of the whole programme) on the subject of the contents of his spoon should he have taken part…
“Do you know what I would’ve done? Jizzed on a fag butt.”