We Survived A MasterChef Singapore Audition And This is How We Did It

From the get-go, I’m treated as a contestant. I’m made to fill up an application form that asks me all kinds of questions about my cooking style, my favourite dishes to cook, and my greatest failings in the kitchen (I neglect to mention that I once literally set our kitchen on fire). Fingers crossed, I send it in.

A few days later, I get my approval and audition slot, and a document that spells out the audition challenge. The task? All candidates will have one hour to execute a dish that they think will impress the producers. We’re told to bring our own ingredients and a nice plate to serve the final dish on, plus whatever specialty equipment we might need.

It’s game on, and I have to start thinking like a MasterChef. What on earth do you bring to make a first impression? One hour is the perfect amount of time to execute something fairly complex, but also tight enough that if it’s too complex you might end up bungling the whole thing. I’m thinking: I want to make something I know like the back of my hand, but that demonstrates all my cooking chops. I make up my mind, and get ready to turn it all out.

It’s D-day. I turn up for my slot at 1.30pm with everything that I need.

The venue is ToTT at Century Square in Tampines. It’s a cooking equipment store with a large kitchen studio, and it’s already swarming with production crew in industry-standard black. I’m the first to arrive at a tight corridor outside the studio, where I can see into the studio.

The candidates from the previous slot are feverishly working through what looks like the last couple of minutes of the cook. It already looks like the set of MasterChef. The candidates are surrounded by a ring of producers and crew, watching on intently. Everyone is flushed in bright white studio lights, and there’s a camera-guy roving around getting in on the action.

Before I can get too close, I’m stopped by a dour production team member. She takes my temperature and collects some forms, including a Non-Disclosure Agreement and a Health Declaration form. You can tell they’re kind of antsy about the whole COVID-19 thing: another contestant turns up shortly after me and he’s sniffling slightly under his mask. Instantly, someone barks at him: “Excuse me, are you sick?” and rushes over with a thermometer. The poor guy apologises and says the mask is irritating his sinuses.

I try and cosy up to the dour production assistant, putting on my journo hat to ask about how many contestants have applied, and she deadpans: “I can’t tell you anything.” Turns out this is a very secretive operation. “Don’t say ‘MasterChef’ while there’s members of the public around,” she intones at me as I turn to ask the other contestant a question. “Please be discreet.”

Soon, more contestants arrive. They’re lugging massive bags full of ingredients and equipment. One guy seems to have brought his whole kitchen with him in a couple of plastic boxes. Weird, I think, seeing as the studio seems fully fitted with stoves, ovens, and a lifetime's supply of pots. I even spot a sous-vide machine and an ice cream maker, which makes me nervous: how serious are these guys?

The energy in the corridor is tense. People are sneaking glances into the studio to watch the action. One of the contestants, the sniffly sinus guy, turns jovially to the others to say “hey everyone, good luck —” and is cut off mid-sentence by the dour production assistant who barks: “No talking please!”

We all stand in silence. It feel a little bit like waiting for the ‘O’ Levels all over again. Soon, the previous group is done. We see them plate their dishes, and they’re quickly ushered out of the studio to another part of the corridor to wait to be dismissed.

A small army of production crew leap to action to turn the studio around: guys with face shields spray down the counters, pots and pans are washed, and the floor is briskly mopped. I see a bunch of people hunching over the plated dishes, tasting and taking notes. Turns out they’re the producers: none of the celebrity judges have turned up for this part of the process.

Finally, the studio is completely sanitised. The members of my time slot are let in, seven of us in total. It’s MasterChef time!

We’re each shown to a station. I’m introduced to a crew member who is tasked with getting me everything I need for the cook. Such a luxury! I’m shown around the drawers where I can find all sorts of tools: graters, knives, and other bits and bobs.

Then, the dreaded revelation: the stove is an induction hob. The temperature controls on these things are notoriously tricky. I have instant flashbacks of my uni dormitory days, where water would take half an hour to come to a boil, and pancakes would burn in seconds.

Someone comes around to teach me how to use the stove. It’s complicated and takes some getting used to, and as I try it out, I look up to see the other contestants furiously setting up their stations: unpacking their ingredients, laying out their equipment. I’m already behind time! I abandon the stove and start to lay everything out.

One of the contestants, a kiasu older gentleman, has put some potatoes into a pot and filled it with water, possibly to get a head-start. A producer, making her rounds, swoops by, takes the pot and empties it out into a sink. “Your time hasn’t started,” she says. He apologises.

The same producer swans over to me, and asks kindly, “You all set?” I nod yes, she makes sure I have everything I need. It’s clear they’re strict but fair: they want everyone to do their best.

She calls for attention and starts a quick briefing. It’s masks off during the cook, she says, and I hear an audible sigh of relief from the others. She emphasizes the importance of hygiene: wash your hands, wash your ingredients, don’t double-dip, wear gloves, and cough and sneeze into your elbows. Keep your station clean and tidy (“we don’t want to see tornadoes”), make sure to taste your food, keep track of time, and most importantly, have fun, she says.

I look around the room and people seem nervous as hell. “Keep your smiles on, everyone,” the producer says, explaining that a producer and cameraman will be roving throughout the cook to give everyone the MasterChef experience. Part of the audition, I see, is a screen test. They need people who won’t crumble under the pressure of time and a camera.

With that, we’re sent back to our stations and told to do a final check of our equipment. “We won’t be giving you anything else during the cook, so make sure you have everything.”

I’ve decided I’m making Ginataang Kalabasa, a Filipino dish of prawns and long beans in a rich pumpkin gravy. I’ve decided to err on the side of familiarity. This is a dish I’ve made hundreds of times. The last thing I want to do is collapse into a pile of tears from trying to execute some complicated multi-component dish. I’m worried it might be a bit too simple, but I reason that it’s a pretty dish and, um, prawns are always impressive. I look over my station: I’m all set, and actually really excited to get going.

T-60 minutes

Soon enough, the producer calls us to attention and gives us the cue to start. Immediately, a flurry of action kicks into the room, everyone is moving at top speed. It really feels like a race. I start cleaning and deveining my prawns.

A producer comes up to me with a cameraman, which turns out to be a pretty unnerving experience. Do I look at the producer or the camera? Look at me, he says, but I can’t help looking up into the camera too. The producer asks me what I’m making and why.

A stew?” he asks, “in just an hour?”

I drop a prawn.

“It comes together quite quickly, yeah.”

“And why did you pick this dish? Are you Filipino?”

“Uh, I had this at a dinner party once before and really liked it.”

“What makes this a MasterChef dish?”

“Uh. I really like it.”

Soon after, they move on to other, probably worthier, contestants, and I see that I’ve barely made a dent in my work.

The first step is to make a rich prawn stock from the heads and shells. As expected, I’ve started struggling with the stove, which refuses to co-operate. Right on cue, the cameraman and producer are back.

“Tell us a little bit about what you’re doing now.”

“I’m trying to get the prawn stock going.”

“Looks like you’ve got to get the technology going first, though, haven’t you?”

I laugh in semi-frustration, and they leave.

I overhear them interviewing another contestant, a cheerful Chinese lady in a gorgeous outfit who answers their questions with grace and clarity.

“I’m making Tortellini,” she says. “And I’m pairing that with a Singapore chili crab sauce.”

Over at another station, I hear someone explain they’re making consommé from scratch.

What? I find myself screeching internally.

I start to think my homey pumpkin and prawn stew is the most basic thing ever.

T-30 Minutes

It’s halfway through the cook, and I’ve noticed at this point that there are some very serious cooks in the room. It turns out Consommé Guy is the same person who transported his whole kitchen in boxes and has brought with him some molecular gastronomy-type gadgets I don’t even recognize.

Meanwhile, I feel like some provincial auntie, slicing up long beans In the distance, though, is a lady who is making a delicious-smelling lamb and okra stew which I hear her explain is a family dish. I feel a kindred spirit with her, the two of us making homey fare in the midst of all this pseudo-fine cooking.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a home cooking competition?” I find myself asking, and start wracking my brain on how to “elevate” my dish.

T-15 Minutes

Most of the cook is done, and to my surprise I’ve done pretty well. I’ve finally made some peace with the stove, and my dish is coming along nicely. The stock is gorgeous, and I’ve used it to poach the long beans for extra flavour. The pumpkin has softened into a smooth sauce, and all that’s left to do is poach the prawns in the sauce, and plate the dish up.

I realise that, unconsciously, I’ve started thinking in a more cheffy way than I usually do at home: don’t overcook this, keep tasting as you go, cut that to look neater, make sure that’s balanced!

Something about MasterChef is already making me a better cook. I feel really proud of myself: the nerves have gone, and I’ve gotten into a kind of flow.

All around me, I can hear people in varying levels of chaos: someone groans about a mistake they just made, voices quiver under the time pressure and the incessant questioning. But also, Cheerful Chilli Crab Pasta Lady has just tasted her sauce and squeals in delight. I feel really happy for her.

T-5 Minutes

It’s the last five minutes and I’m ready to plate. I look at my dish, prawns and beans in a bright golden sauce. Visually, it’s still missing something. I keep asking myself, with only minutes to go: how do you elevate this dish? An idea suddenly seizes me. I make some quick and snappy decisions.

I put a small pan of oil over high heat, grab a bunch of curry leaves, thinly slice up some garlic, and throw it all into the pan. The leaves blister and crackle, and the garlic hisses. It smells delicious. It’s a simple Indian technique called Tarka, used to create a quick but potent flavoured oil.

I quickly ladle the hot oil and crisp leaves over the dish. Instantly, it looks a hundred times more finished, and I think the subtle curry leaf flavour is going to, well, elevate the whole thing. I see a producer looking on at what I’m doing, suitably impressed, and I feel over the moon.

Before I know it, a producer calls time. Everyone stops what they’re doing, and I see some contestants lift their hands in the time-honoured tradition of reality-TV cooking competitions. Everyone looks exhausted, but pleased with their work. The plates are taken away, and people start tidying up their stations.

Then, the actual contestants are ushered out of the room. But as a journo I’m allowed to snoop around a little bit. I go over to the judging table and am blown away at what some people have managed to produce in an hour.

I marvel at these restaurant-grade plates, and look over at my little offering. I don’t hate it. It’s humble, but it’s pretty, and I bet it tastes amazing.

The judges say I can’t hang around the tasting as their verdicts and opinions are secret. They promise they’ll taste mine.

I go outside to join the other contestants as they wait for the judges to be done so they can get their plates and equipment back. No verdicts or interviews will be released today, so it’s a waiting game from here on for these guys. I try talking to some of them and am reminded not to say “MasterChef”.

I sidle up to Cheerful Chilli Crab Pasta Lady and ask her how she thinks she did. “I’m surprised I pulled it all together in time!” she says. Me too, I think, recalling her tuille, which can’t have been easy to make. I ask her how she felt about the camera-in-your-face component. “I told my friend to talk to me while I cooked so I could get used to it,” she adds. Turns out if you want to win this competition, you’ve really got to train for it, almost like an athlete.

Soon, the contestants get their stuff back and are quietly dismissed, one by one. They wish each other good luck under their breaths as they leave.

I go back in to snoop around some more. The small army of production crew is almost done turning the studio, and the next batch of contestants have started to arrive.

I see that the producers have taken a small bite of my dish and have left the rest for me to tapau, which I do, into a Tupperware I brought along with me. They won’t tell me what they think but I do ask them what they’re looking for in a contestant at this stage.

“Flavour,” one of them says, “and technique. As simple as that. It always boils down to flavour. And of course it’s got to look great too.”

And what about the kinds of people, I ask?

“It helps if they’ve got great personalites,” a producer adds, “but even a camera shy person who's an amazing cook works, because the food is more important in the end.” They’re not looking for big TV personalities, I'm told, because they’re not out to manufacture the intense drama of Masterchef USA, notorious for being super high jinks and shouty.

“Tonally, we’re a lot closer to MasterChef Australia,” one of them tells me, “it’s a lot more nurturing, and it’s all about the learning.”

I can totally see that. Even with such a short taste of the process, I’ve found myself learning a lot about myself as a cook, and making better culinary decisions. In fact, I’ve already started fantasising about what it might be like to go on to the next stage, and what kinds of dishes I might make.

As I thank the producers for the experience and get ready to leave, one of them turns to me.

“Have you considered actually joining the competition?” she asks. “You were so calm! You should really consider it.”

Maybe I should.

To audition, simply cook and upload a snapshot of your best dish, record a 30-second self-introductory video and complete the online form here ​​​​​​​Closing date: Oct 4, 2020, 11.59pm SGT

Photos: Alvin Teo