It's A Mystery (Basket)

Chefs, please open your basket. You have:

-Four people you’ve never met in your entire life.

-Three intense rounds of cooking food you’d never make at home.

-Two moments where you want to slap a contestant or a judge.

-One more episode. Then another. Then another.

30 minutes to make your entree round. The clock starts now:

Prep time: zero effort unless you misplace the remote

Cook time: 3,000 minutes. 46 seasons since 2009. 250 episodes. 12 hours of filming per episode.

Serving size: this guy.

Turn on the television and surf the tv guide or streaming services for what to watch. Settle on the food network. It’s not really settling. It’s committing to a lifestyle. To a group of 4 strangers fighting to the death in front of some of the best chefs and judges the American commercial cooking scene has to offer. Choose your volume level. And commence.

Chefs from around the country gather to cook from mystery baskets that include anything from orange sherbet in an entree round to bison jerky in the desert round. It’s insane. These chefs are excellent at what they do where they do it. However, 20 minutes for an appetizer, 30 minutes for an entree and 30 minutes for a dessert is unnatural for a home cook. The energy is intense, the music selections range from soft ballads to hard rock.

By the end of the episode, you form an attachment to these people and their stories. One chef is competing in memory of a deceased relative, the other was homeless or a victim of America’s flawed justice system and this competition is part of their redemption musical. I have quite literally fallen in love with these people, their stories, their amazing concoctions within impossible time frames. For none of these reasons is Chopped my guilty pleasure.

It’s what the competition does to me.

I don’t care about eating when I watch that show. Vegan chefs promote healthy food options in a clean eating specialty episode while I neck an entire sleeve of Pringles. People cook their hearts out and I am almost never inspired to hop in the kitchen and make some culinary magic for myself. What I take pleasure most in how I binge this show is not how many episodes I watch but how invested I become in every single aspect of the production.

To the camera editors, you do your absolute best every single time. Each competitor gets a fun, personalized intro at the restaurant they work in, which I adore. The camera crew creates a superhero entrance for each contestant. They enter accompanied by some epic music and my blood begins to bubble. Immediately, I choose my favorite competitor. Most of the time, there is one major commonality. No shame whatsoever: I always root for the people of color or the women. Bonus points if they fall into both categories.

“YES, QUEEN! You better EMULSIFY!”

I had no idea what emulsification was until that show. Admittedly, I’m still lost. I support the competitors all the same. I thoroughly enjoy the rage I feel when the ones I fall for don’t rise to the occasion. I most often scream or point out the flaws. “Of course you weren’t getting past the next round. You didn’t give yourself enough time in the deep fryer.” The eeriness occurs when the competitors or judges repeat what I’ve just said during the deliberation. I know that these episodes have already been recorded. I’ve never seen one happen live but I am convinced the people can hear me. Yes, I know they cannot.

What defines the viewing experience as a marriage between guilt and pleasure is my relationship with the judging staff. I am filled with immense joy anytime Aaron Sanchez, Alex Guarnaschelli, Geoffrey Zacarian or Maneet Chauhan are judging. To be honest, I don’t mind most of the judges. They know what they’re talking about. There is one, however, that I absolutely love to hate is Chris Santos. He had a quick, obnoxious, abrasive way of addressing each chef, especially the chef that the other two judges are less verbally critical of. He amps it up and comes down on every single competitor I fall in love with. There is a way to dole out criticism and most of the time, his disclaimers like “Ok, I promise I’m a nice guy but..” fill me with so much rage. I must say I can’t wait to yell at him any and every time he sits perched his arrogance at the table of judgement. If another judge disagrees with him, my heart sings. If a reality show could have a central villain, that professional chef would be mine. I have even muted the television whenever he gives feedback only to regret it instantly. I can’t miss out on a chance to scream at that man.

Even while writing this, I found myself inspired to listen to Chopped in the background and screaming at Chris intermittently. Alex Guarnaschelli does no wrong in my book. The camera crew is obsessed with facial expressions, ranging from sour to menacing to immense joy. If you put her, Maneet and maybe even Amanda Freitag as a judging team, I would never stop watching.

Remove yourself from the couch.

Turn off the TV. Splash water on your face. Rest your eyes. You’ve been at it for 5 hours.

Let your rage or satisfaction set overnight.

Repeat.