Katich Krêpe King

I had an inkling Mr Katich would take out his Masterchef heat, because there's been a trend of the quartz-precision athletic types doing well. It wasn't too noisy a show in the end, partly because I was sitting under the quiet pall of sheepishness that comes from scarfing down a McValue meal. There was praise in our loungeroom for his plating and his running, and in the end my flatmate gave the best verdict: "He's very Straight, isn't he?" It was after an especially wooden piece-to-camera, and we reflected that most blokes, whatever their actual predilections, can still work a tiny admixture of camp into their manner, an little swing, an element of, well, style. Most blokes. Not Simon. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I gather (I am no judge) his technique at the crease is also largely untouched by gainliness. But whatever works, right?

The showing was low on the violence front. There was a small yelp of "Don't stab it!" when he was attempting, a little roughly I thought, to unmould his crêpe cake with the aid of a knife. And though he watched his salmon "like a hawk" (his words), he still managed to overcook it: stabbing may have been the better diagnostic move in this case. His face was mostly set in an expression of bemusement, with the exception of one break-out moment when first confronted with the crêpe layer cake:

And since there's a history of shutter-sequence analysis of Katich's reactions here, this was actually a 1-2-1 sequence of:

1. Appalledness at the cake;

2. Look to the judges to confirm reality of situation;

3. Back to cake with heightened appalledness.

I can feel a Simon Katich Memorial Lemon Curd Crêpe Layer Cake coming on, because that's exactly the kind of dish I go in for. I gather Simon has also been playing some cricket. Must look into that.

Give us This Day in Shane Warne

I got so excited last week at the preview snippets of Simon Katich in the Masterchef kitchen that I almost crushed the cat (no pun… or rude new slang expression… intended). Great Squealing tomorrow night, no doubt.

And may I mention the shades of Warney in the delightfully zaftig George Calombaris? Last entry I referred to the “Balkan Haut” type allegedly embodied by Katich, and George has elements of a type I invented for Warney called “Buddha Warrior”.

It combines on the one hand a bodyfat-rich bonhomie that smiles and shines like the sun, the golden “virtue that bestows”, as Nietzsche’s Zarathustra describes it,* radiant and magnetic in its radiance. And on the other hand the fire in the belly: a boundless roaring competitive flame, the instinct to fight, win and kill, snakey patience and foxy wiliness... “Buddha Warrior” is where these attributes intersect and are the same thing.

George’s palate is no doubt broader than Warney’s. The palate of the average 6 year-old is broader than Warney’s. But within his category he has still come up with some Warney-like goods. Last week’s “Honestly, it looks like spew”, obviously. He has also confessed to a love of ham and pineapple, and in the original season when faced with steak tartare, he offered: “I have to say, raw meat FREAKS ME RIGHT OUT”.

And without wanting to get all Wagyu about it, that body fat – Warne’s, George's – really is marvellous. Nothing excessive about it. It’s seal-like: sleek, firm and functional. Strong, plump hands... Got it? Okay then.

It may have become apparent why I need something like “This Day in Shane Warne” to keep me in order. I don’t expect it is a thrilling read, but the process of putting it together is a pleasingly mundane devotional ritual. I can relive the innings that I didn’t see or don’t remember, or did see and do remember, and turn up the odd treasure, like the poignant “You dickhead, what are you doing? What have you done?”

When I lived in a Vietnamese neighbourhood in Melbourne, you’d see little Buddha shrines in the shops with tins of Pringles and cans of Coke for the Buddha’s enjoyment. Let’s just say This Day in Shane Warne is a bit like my tin of Pringles and can of Coke. Or can of spaghetti and packet of Benson and Hedges.

As 18^th century French novelist Claude Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon always says, “On s’ennuie quand on aime mediocrement.” Or: “Obsession: it’s just more fun!”

* “Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon,
and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always bestoweth itself […]
Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, because your virtue is
insatiable in desiring to bestow. Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and
into you, so that they shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of 
your love.” Honestly, I find Thus Spake Zarathustra pretty much unreadable, but
I have always liked the image of the “virtue that bestows.”