“Talent Walking out the Door”: How Lune Founder Kate Reid Nearly Became a Masterchef Contestant

During my final six months or so of living in the UK, I’d become obsessed with cooking shows, yet another side effect of the burgeoning eating disorder. The pièce de résistance was Masterchef: the original British show hosted by John Torode and Gregg Wallace. Filmed in a small BBC studio, the show took talented home cooks through a series of elimination challenges before eventually crowning one the winner. I loved it so much that [boyfriend] Martin meticulously recorded every episode of the 2009 series on DVD and posted it to me (ah, the good old days, pre-streaming).

One night in December 2008, I was watching TV with Mum and Dad when an ad came on for a casting call. Channel 10 was looking for contestants for a brand new reality TV show centred around cooking. It was called Masterchef Australia. I nearly leapt off the couch with excitement, immediately calling Martin to tell him the news.

The initial application form was an exhaustive list of probing questions, such as: “Where did you develop your love of food?” and “What are your favourite dishes to cook?” They wanted to know about my culinary inspiration and my vision for what I’d like to do in the food industry. I spent hours on the application – Martin helping to refine my answers – in the desperate hope that I’d make the cut.

In early January, I received a call from Channel 10. After having received more than 7500 applications, they were inviting only two hundred people from Victoria to audition and I was one of them.

It already felt like a huge achievement to have made it this far, but now I desperately wanted to be one of the final 20.

The first round of auditions was being held at the Marriott in Melbourne’s CBD. All contestants were asked to arrive at 7.30am. Mum and I showed up bright and early on the Thursday morning as I was determined to use every available opportunity to prove just how much I wanted this. Turns out, 200 other people had the same idea...

We were instructed to bring two servings of a dish that we had prepared in advance. Contestants would be split into smaller groups and asked to taste each other’s dishes and provide critique. This, in itself, proved a nerve-racking prospect for me. I hated eating in front of other people, and this would be one of the first times I genuinely had no control over what I was putting in my mouth. But if I wanted this, I had no choice but to show enthusiasm and behave as normally as possible, so as not to raise any concern with the producers.

The internal mental struggle was so overwhelming that I spent the majority of the day running back and forth to the bathroom, my tummy a convoluted knot of nerves and panic. If I were to be successful in my application and secure a spot on the show, I would be required to taste food constantly during filming, but I’d pushed that terrifying thought to the back of my mind. I would cross that bridge when I came to it. I had to get through the auditions first. Each group would be observed by someone from Channel 10, who would judge how knowledgeable we were about ingredients and techniques, and how we expressed ourselves and interacted with the other contestants. Based on this, we would then either be asked to attend a one-on-one session with a psychologist, or we would politely be sent home with a curt “Better luck next time”. I couldn’t believe it when my name was called out to proceed to round two. The psychologist didn’t concern me. I’ve always been good in interviews, especially when I’m passionate about the subject matter.

And I wanted this badly. Also, by this stage I’d had plenty of experience with psychologists; I knew how to work them. Deflecting attention from my current (serious) health issues, I quickly brushed over the questions about whether I was up to the mental challenges of a high-pressure reality television show and being in the public eye. And when asked if I would be able to move to Sydney for several months’ filming, I confidently responded, “Absolutely!” They didn’t need to know about my Melbourne-based medical team (or the fact that I was currently living with my parents because I couldn’t be trusted to feed myself without supervision). Had I been honest about the anorexia, there’s no way they would have put me through to the next round. But, sure enough, my name was called out to advance to round three. I’d passed the test.

The final audition for the day involved presenting the second serve of my dish to a group of food experts, who asked me to describe my dish before they tasted it for themselves. Afterwards, I was sent back to the waiting area, by this stage completely wrung out. Finally, one of the organisers came over and spoke to me.

“We’re now going to assess all the candidates who made it through to the third round and determine who we want to invite back for day two of auditions,” he explained. “If you are successful, you’ll get a call from us tonight.”

Mum and I were both shattered. I’d spent the entire day in a heightened state of anxiety, and Mum had been tasked with the unenviable job of trying to keep me calm. Dad came to collect us and I spent the drive home fretfully going over and over the events of the day, picking apart my chances of success.

For the remainder of that evening my phone metamorphosed into an all-powerful magnetic force, pulling my mental energy towards it, willing it to ring. But it remained stubbornly silent. It was late by the time I finally let go of any shred of hope that I was going to make it through. By this stage I’d convinced myself that it was a fait accompli: Masterchef was what I was destined to do, the direction I’d been searching for, what I could throw my energy behind. It would change my life, give me a purpose, fulfill me. But, as it turns out, it wasn’t. Utterly defeated, I took myself to bed.

The following morning, I decided to skip breakfast. I dragged myself across the park to Ousia for my shift, minus the normal spring in my step. I didn’t feel much like telling Mary about the preceding day’s audition; I was too disappointed with the outcome and maybe a little bit embarrassed that I hadn’t been successful, especially after feeling so sure that Masterchef was my calling. I struggled to focus on the tasks at hand, the four hours passing uncharacteristically slowly. Mid-shift, the three of us paused for a coffee break, but when Mary offered me one of Auntie Kiki’s melomakarona, I politely declined.

“That’s not like you, Keti mou. You love melomakarona,” she said, looking at me searchingly. At 10.30, without needing to be asked, I untied my apron, neatly rolled it up and placed it under the sink with the clean tea towels, and bid farewell to Mary and Al. I could already feel it: the familiar discomfort that came with the uncertainty of my reason for being. After a few days of renewed hope, I felt myself leaning straight back into the strict regime of managing food intake and exercise: my security blanket.

Walking in the front door I was greeted by a frantic Mum. “Kate! Masterchef has rung here several times; they’re urgently trying to get in contact with you. They won’t tell me why, here’s their number, they asked you to call them back as soon as you got home!” Snatching the piece of paper with a scribbled phone number, I covered the distance between the front door and the telephone in world-record speed.

With shaking hands, I dialled the number. “Kate! Where are you?! You were supposed to be here by 7.30!” Feeling like I’d missed a rather key piece of information, I replied, “Be where? I’m a little confused.” “Auditions! They started over three hours ago!” “But… I never got a call back.” There was a moment of pause on the other end of the line. “Wait, you didn’t get a call back?” Another pause. “Hmm okay, yeah right, sorry. Well, you were successful in the auditions yesterday. We’ve split the second round of auditions over two days; can you be here at 7.30 tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. YES! Yes, I can!”

Oh my God, I WAS THROUGH! I hadn’t overestimated myself or failed! Mum, hanging on every word of the half of the conversation she was privy to, jumped on me as soon as I hung up. “What did they want?”

“Mum, I’m through! They want to audition me! At 7.30 TOMORROW MORNING!”

It’s true what they say: a mother’s love knows no bounds, of this I am certain. No doubt her heart sank a little when she took this news on board. The prospect of another whole day sitting in an audition room was probably not how she had envisioned spending her Saturday. But, to her credit, she excitedly wrapped her arms around my thin frame, enveloping me in the kind of a hug only a mum can give.

“Kate, that is just AMAZING! What do we need to organise for tomorrow?” Bless her cotton socks.

Prior to those first auditions, we’d already been told that, if successful, we would then be required to cook a dish in a makeshift kitchen and present it to the three Masterchef judges for tasting, on camera. The three judges cast for the Australian spin-off were considered royalty in the Melbourne hospitality scene. British chef Gary Mehigan owned the critically acclaimed Fenix and The Boathouse. George Calombaris, also a chef and restaurateur, had a couple of Greek venues: Hellenic Republic, plus his impossible-to-get-a-booking-at The Press Club.

The third judge was Matt Preston, a celebrated journalist and food critic who had a regular column in Epicure, but perhaps most famous for his love of the cravat.

I’d already decided on the dish I was going to cook for the final auditions. Greg Malouf’s beautiful coffee-table-worthy cookbooks Saha and Turquoise had been recent additions to my expanding collection, showcasing the cuisines of Lebanon, Syria and Turkey. I was mesmerised by the photography portraying culturally significant dishes from these spice-forward, sun-drenched countries. It was the food Mary cooked, complete with the spectacular Mediterranean backdrop.

There was a particular recipe for a herb-loaded pilaf, garnished with purple-green jewels of pistachio that I’d cooked several times at home for Mum and Dad. It had fast become a Reid household favourite. I planned to serve it with a perfectly pan-fried fillet of ocean trout, complete with crispy skin. Camberwell market was blessed with an exceptional fishmonger who I had become pretty chummy with since my return to Melbourne. James and Con always smiled tolerantly at my painful requests for “Three tiny pieces of ocean trout, please. No, they’re still too big, could you cut three to order for me? No more than 150 grams per fillet. And can you please check for bones?” They even started sending me home with a couple of oysters, on the house.

“They’re for your poor dad who has to put up with you,” James would say, grinning broadly through his thick dark beard, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

I knew I could cook this dish blindfolded. I’d already carried out meticulous preparations: a detailed spreadsheet documenting every step of the method, including precise timings that I had down to a tee, thanks to a week of obsessively practising the dish, to ensure I could realistically cook it within the allotted 45 minutes. What’s that old saying: you can take the girl out of engineering...? I’d even figured out how to make a fast but flavour-packed chicken stock which would then be used to cook the pilaf, hoping to display a level of understanding and appreciation for creating all elements of a dish from scratch. I was so ready for this.

In the same way that sleep only comes lightly and fleetingly the night before an early flight, the morning of the auditions I awoke hours before my alarm. The nerves and excitement had well and truly kicked in, a natural performance-enhancing drug. I checked my email. There was a cute message from Martin wishing me good luck. I thought back to watching Masterchef in our cosy little living room in Dashwood Road and wondered if the universe had planned this for me all along.

Mum and I arrived at the Melbourne Convention Centre at 7.30am, armed with ingredients, plus all the pots, pans and utensils required for my chosen dish. A conference room had been set up with three makeshift kitchens, each comprising only the bare basics: a hob, an oven and a sink with running water. There were about two dozen of us auditioning. We were informed that the order of the auditions was completely random, and we could be called at any time. Once called, we had 45 minutes to cook the dish then present it to the judges, who were set up in a separate room also fitted out with a kitchen. Each time a producer summoned a new contestant to begin their cook, I braced myself to hear my name. But they made me wait. And wait. If the plan was to break me, well then, they were underestimating my resilience.

My name was called at 8.45pm. By this stage I’d been sitting in the makeshift kitchen studio watching other contestants be called up for more than 13 hours. I was close to broken. At the beginning of the day, the producers had explained that while we could complete the entire cook in the prep room, there was the option to use the final five minutes of our allotted time to finish cooking and plating the dish in front of the judges. While there may be some heroes out there that have nerves of steel to cope with a stressful situation made even more so, we all immediately ascertained that you’d have to be barking mad to interrupt your cook at such a crucial moment. It was audition suicide.

I was mid-pilaf preparation when the producers approached my bench and put the hard word on me to finish my dish in front of the judges (because no one else had). Right, so they clearly needed a bit of drama and they were running out of time (and contestants), and it had come down to good old little people-pleaser me. I felt forced into a position where it was impossible to say “no”, and so – against my better judgement – I agreed; but with one caveat.

I explained to them that I was cooking fish and would require more than five uninterrupted minutes to complete the dish. The final component to my dish was the pan-fried ocean trout fillet which, from my exhaustive preparation, I knew took exactly seven minutes to be perfectly cooked. The producers huddled and then came back to me, confirming that if I agreed to finish my dish in the judging room I would be granted the requisite seven minutes to cook my fish. And so it was that I was the first (and last) idiot to “agree” to such a wildly stressful audition.

Standing in front of Gary, Matt and George, cameras trained to my face – a picture of concentration – I put the fillet of ocean trout in the hot pan, skin-side down, and set my seven-minute timer. But after only four minutes Gary exclaimed, “Time’s up! Plate up your dish and let’s have a taste.” My heart sank. I knew that fish wasn’t cooked. Of course it wasn’t, it still needed another three minutes. But I was being filmed, and even in my highly strung state I knew it wasn’t appropriate to argue. So, I did as I was told and placed the undercooked ocean trout fillet on top of my beautiful herb pilaf.

Gary was first to taste, and he cut straight into the thickest part of the fish (of course you did, Gary). Upon discovering it was not cooked, he flatly delivered the verdict that it was a “no” from him. Matt was next. He lifted a forkful to his mouth, tasted it, and contemplated for a few seconds. “It’s a yes from me,” he said. “I think you’ve kinda got what it might take.”

Everything came down to George. There was an excruciating pause before he gave his answer, which I embarrassingly filled by begging them to give me a shot. “I will give it everything,” I declared, dramatically throwing my arms in the air. “If you see some sort of promise in here” – I gestured to the half-eaten farce in front of me – “please give me a chance. This is what I want to do. I know that this isn’t up to restaurant standard yet, but I want to get there, and I would like to be coached and mentored by you three.” Can’t say I didn’t give it my best shot.

But of course, his decision was “no”, and the rest is history. Months later, I endured the humbling experience of watching my audition air on national television. I observed myself, defeated, pushing the trolley with my failed dish out of the judging room.

As the door closed behind me, Matt Preston turned to the other two judges and said, “That’s talent walking out the door. That’s an understanding of food that you seldom see.” The following day, Helen came over to me as I was rolling up my yoga mat at the end of class.

“Lenovo, did I see you on the telly last night?” Mildly embarrassed by the attention, I nodded. “Yep, that was me … ” “I didn’t know you liked to cook! Shame the fish was underdone … “

Shame indeed.

This is an edited chapter from Destination Moon: A Memoir of Fast Cars, French Pastries and Finding Purpose by Kate Reid, published by Simon & Schuster. RRP $49.99.