‘It looks like a mudslide,” said a sorrowful but sympathetic judge when contemplating a sadly failed attempt to make a Black Forest gateau, an elaborate multi-layered confection of sponge cake loaded with black cherries, butter cream and fluffy white icing and whimsical decorations of pure dark chocolate. It was to have been what producers call the “showstopper” of the competition.
And indeed, the cake was a soggy, floppy mess, and its creator, 53-year-old accountant Dorret Conway, had nearly collapsed in misery along with her dismal cake.
Welcome to the Great British Baking Show!
The program – titled the Great British Bake Off in Great Britain – is an unexpected hit on both sides of Atlantic and just started a new season here on PBS. It’s picking up new fans all the time. Count me among them.
Each season follows the fortune of 10 or 12 amateur bakers who compete among themselves for the best baker title. And – unlike most competitive cooking reality shows, which seem to be inspired by Mad Max movies – they are nice. The presenters – that’s Brit-speak for hosts – are nice, if a little addicted to double-entendres. The judges – a “master baker,” Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry, a writer of cookery (Brit-speak again) books – are also nice. Even when delivering devastating diagnoses (see above “mudslide”). The contestants seem, for the most part, to be thoroughly nice – and supportive of one another.
Even the venue is nice. Very nice. In this season, the action takes place in a huge and elegant white marquee – we’d call it an open-sided tent – on the well-groomed broad grounds (an occasional picturesque pheasant wanders by) of an enormous edifice that puts Downton Abbey to shame.
And by nice I mean this. In a normal competitive cooking show – or any other ginned up reality show “competition” – a clear stumble like poor Dorret’s cake mishap (turned out she’d messed up her timing, and a mousse didn’t have time to set properly) – would have caused barely concealed glee on the part of other contestants and outright scorn from the hosts.
In this case, before the judges even saw the wretched cake, one of the hosts approached and, as sympathetic bakers watched, put her arm around the distraught baker, murmured “It’s just a cake,” and gently guided her from the marquee. Er, tent. And by the time it was her turn to have the gateau judged, Dorret was still unhappy – but composed.
And at the end of that first show of the season, when one candidate (not Dorret!) was eliminated, there were hugs all around.
See? Nice!
To be fair, there might be a bit more acrimony if the bakers were all professionals, looking for career-enhancing glory. But they’re not. Although all are clearly gifted bakers, they are also all amateurs, male and female, widely varying in age – this crew ranges from 19 to 66 – and professions. They include a prison governor, a professional musician, a travel photographer and a firefighter. Their backgrounds are diverse as well. It’s interesting to note that – despite Brexit and the xenophobia it exposed – some bakers’ families recently came from France, Bangladesh, Lithuania, the West Indies and the Philippines.
I have to make it clear here, by the way, that I am not a baker. I come from a long line of non-bakers. I have friends who are terrific bakers. One can effortlessly whip up extraordinary cinnamon buns, biscuits and other such goodies without even breaking a sweat, and another makes the best tasting– and best looking – pies in at least this country. And of course, my Monitor colleague and friend Hillary Nelson is a baker extraordinaire who never fails to inspire.
Me? I have a limited repertoire of great Christmas cookies, and I make a terrific olive oil dark chocolate cake based on a recipe from Fine Cooking magazine. Otherwise? Nada. Which is okay, since we have Bread and Chocolate and Crust and Crumb bakeries right downtown.
But look at the reality of our world outside this happy little bubble of British baking. Natural disasters – floods, heat waves, droughts, out-of-control wildfires and massive storms, many exacerbated if not caused by unchecked climate change – assault this country. American troops are mired in wars in countries and cultures we don’t understand. Vicious, almost nihilist terrorists – inspired by theological controversies we also don’t understand – are blowing up innocent people in places many of us can’t find on maps.
The European Union, the imperfect mechanism that has helped keep Europe from leading the globe into yet a third World War, could be disintegrating with strident nationalism rearing its ugly head and the odious Vladimir Putin casting covetous eyes on Baltic countries.
Politically, here in our country, the real world landscape is about as bleak, with gun violence and deaths in daily headlines. Civility – on nearly every political level – is virtually extinct. Our public dialog seems to have lost any semblance of restraint or even common decency. And the presidential election, in which the two major party candidates – whether fairly or not – are widely disliked, isn’t until November. Things will only get worse.
Contrast that with a lovely hour of scones and cookies, beautiful cakes, sweet rolls and delicate tea cakes, all lovingly baked by a bunch of extremely polite Brits in a beautiful setting. What’s not to like?
I may have only now discovered the Great British Baking Show. But I’m happy to note that a number of old shows are still available on Comcast On Demand. After all, it’s going to be a long, long four months until November.
(“Monitor” columnist Katy Burns lives in Bow.)