Cold steel, cold meal.
Season 4, Episode 12
You don’t want to be here. But there’s no way out now. Fuck all those people who said this would lead to a brilliant career.
Suck it up, Lovey. You made your bed.
See Bruce the Goose, that washed up TV actor checking out your arse. Bet he never thought his contracted role as a chef in the short-lived “A Country Café” would end like this: a six month stint as a judge eating cold food – yes it’s all cold – pretending to care about silly contestants and silly dreams of gastronomical stardom. Maybe he stole your pearl sago. Maybe he gets off on seeing you all hot and flustered.
Your plan to impress with a Neuvo-Neolithic-Polynesian-Out of Africa hybrid – sago stuffed hare with wild fruit coulis – was a dead-set semi-final clincher. Now the bunny’s boiled, the wild fruit’s up and gone feral, and the sago … who the fuck would steal the sago!
Back to the drawing board, a challenge for Lovey. Don’t you just love your TV nickname? And, isn’t that what this is all about, challenge. If you hear that word once again you will surely puke. Maybe that could be your new special ingredient, deconstructed stomach contents – serve it chilled, they’ll never know. A nice acidic finish.
Now, what is that silly bimbo food blogger, Fantasia, doing in the pantry? Taking a selfie, of course. Lips pursed, chest thrust out, twenty shots at least for that perfect Instagram post.
Shove her out of the way.
Tell her, “It’s fifteen minutes.”
Ask her, “Someone stole my sago, have you seen it?”
“It was probably that diet freak, Stick-Figure Sally! She’s the one with the carb phobia.”
Fantasia has a point, Sally is a freak. And the hide! Giving you her diet-book whilst looking over your generous hips. Oh dear, Lovey, it will all soon be over.
Look at the other Cut The Mustard contestants – busy, on track, smiling at themselves in their little kitchenettes. How much did this whole she-bang cost? The price of entertainment, delicious torture and world-wide humiliation, don’t come cheap these days.
You’ve heard about the team of writers, but you claimed that was nonsense. No, Lovey, it’s true. They’re in their offices now writing the finals and you’re not in it. You don’t know this, but despite being loved by millions for your quirky recipes and red-faced humble attitude, you’re the lovable clutz that bows out today in the semi-finals. You can’t win. The plot was engraved in the granite bench-tops months ago. Desleigh, the roly-poly mother figure who takes in orphan kiddies from war-ravaged countries is going to beat Dexter, the hipster ego-maniac hated by millions. The editors with 24/7 video at their disposable have crafted the penultimate angel and her slim waisted, hirsute antithesis. “D-Day” they’ll call the grand finale.
“Live in five’, calls the wired-for-sound floor manager.
Shit, you can’t cook anything now. Quick, summons up that pure creative genius, Lovey. Run outside and grab some twigs and grass clippings from the gardens. Grab some rocks too. Don’t worry that everyone is watching. Now make a small bow with one of the sticks and some of the turkey trussing string – that’s the firestarter, you will tell them. You can even demonstrate. You’ve watched the docos where little dusty people make fire with a little bow and some straw, haven’t you?
Now, set a ring of rocks to make the camp-fire smack bang in the middle of the table. Remember those earthenware pots from episode two? They must be somewhere, grab them and those rustic knives, be stuffed supplying forks! Next, onions, lots of them, scatter them around the table, find some eggs and do the same. Put that boiled hare in the pot and chuck in every fucking herb you can find. Great.
“Cut The Mustard. Semi-final cook off, take one. Five … four … three … two … one.” Clack goes the clapper board.
Pierre Gateau-Latte is the chef of the moment. His string of international three hat restaurants charge small fortunes for ridiculously pretentious dining experiences. It’s a big joke, you know it, and so does Pierre. The world is a joke.
“Lovey, this is sublime,” Pierre says in his gorgeous Gallic accent. “Pure genius, a camp-out meal where one must start the fire with that cute little bow. It’s a ten from me.”
Bruce the Goose, Fantasia and Stick-Figure Sally have to follow suit. They must concur with Monsieur Gateau-Latte.
You win. You’re in the finals.
Too bad, eh?
The writers are simultaneously popping Valium and snorting cocaine. The producer is screaming at Pierre. Then you see it, sticking out of that mad Frenchman’s Louis Vuitton tote bag, the missing pack of pearl sago.