He's Cooking! (I'm not a writer... I just play one on TV)
National Post (July 29, 2000)

Pity the sensitive and thoughtful American male who finds love on a television game show. Programs like Blind Date don't think twice about humiliating contestants to ensure good ratings. Luckily, Canadian shows aren't driven by the same sensibility that bred such shows as STUDS and Change of Heart. Guess the Charter of Rights and Freedoms lets us duck questions like, "If you were a vegetable, which one would you be and why?"

While less obvious and ribald than the American shows that helped inspire it, WTN's Cooking For Love (The Dating Game meets Wok With Yan) still manages to exude a certain spice and sizzle, due in large part to the crushworthy hostess, Thea Andrews. She keeps things going as three men vie for the affections of a mystery woman by cooking a meal of her choosing (occasionally the genders reverse). There is no recipe provided, the meal is a mystery until the show begins and the participants are given just 30 minutes to shake and bake.

Producer Maria Armstrong agreed to let me write about appearing on the show, and vowed to keep my observer status a secret. She assured me that Cooking For Love was designed so that participants were treated nicely and had fun. On a U.S. show, she noted, "contestants might have to drop their pants to prove they have nice legs and a nice ass before getting approved."

Still, Maria shattered my fragile calm by ending our conversation with a chilling phrase: cattle call. Instead of simply using her clout to get me on the show, she suggested I audition like everyone else, to see if I was telegenic and charismatic. This was worrisome to me, as I have a skin condition known as "inner beauty." I believe my best feature is my intelligence, but even that should be treated with grave skepticism, given my willingness to appear on a game show that involves a hot stove.

The audition meant going to the downtown YMCA one Saturday -- would feats of strength might be required? -- and filling out a form that posed such searing questions as: "How often do you date?" (not often enough) and "What statement would best describe your culinary know-how?" (I have graduated from instant noodles to vegetable curries) and "What is your daytime phone number?" I tried answering the questions as honestly as possible (416-555-1212), although I fudged a bit on occupation, purporting to be a business and technology writer to throw them off the journalistic scent.

I was then ushered into a small room to answer a few questions before a video camera. The handler asked what had made me fly from Vancouver to New York for a blind date in the fall of 1998. I told her my heart had melted at those four most romantic words: Air Canada Seat Sale. She laughed, snapped a Polaroid of me (clothed) and promised to let me know within two weeks.

Nearly a month later -- long enough to imagine several scenarios involving laughter and the pitying shaking of heads -- I got the call. I was in.

Luckily, I had spent the intervening weeks primping and preening. Television is a harsh mistress, and contrary to what Sprite might have you believe, image is everything. I had bought a pair of contact lenses, got my hair cut, dyed the remainder blond and revitalized my closet. I needed to bring "two to three camera-ready outfits" to the taping, which means no plaids, stripes, checks, prints, white or red clothing or jeans -- a list that describes my wardrobe perfectly. I enlisted my friend Rob who, while not gay, certainly knows his way around a clothes rack. A few hundred dollars later, we achieved what he called "Biggemalian."

I spent most of the appointed Sunday cultivating an ulcer, then arrived at the CBC Broadcast Centre, where the Cookin' producers rent facilities. The director walked us menfolk through the show, pointing out our marks (TV talk for duct tape) and informing us that the blue bottles on the spice shelves were merely dyed water. With the magic of the show thus ruined, we met Thea Andrews, who rekindled the magic. It is the job of the journalist to create concise, vivid characterizations, so here goes: Thea Andrews is very, very, very pretty. To me, the logic is clear. If the male contestants can manage to appear more interested in the mystery girl than in Thea, the chances of infidelity or even ogling are minimal.

She went over the forms we had filled out so long ago and tried to determine what we were all about. It would be easy to dismiss Thea if she weren't so pleasant, charming, quick-witted and intelligent. The contestants are free to act like bimbos or mimbos, but Thea radiates calm and cool. Did she make me nervous? Only momentarily. Once I realized that Thea Andrews is just another attractive woman I'm never going to sleep with, I relaxed appreciably.

Next, a producer named Jeni did her best to explain the fine line between PG-13 (good) and NC-17 (bad). For example, an entire episode had to be scrapped because a male chef said "dildo." Not only is that word too lascivious, but it was inappropriate given that the show is meant to eliminate the need for that particular appliance. Jeni also informed us that our mystery woman was "hot." When pressed, she admitted she always said that, but assured us that in this particular case, it was actually true.

All the while, we three chefs were supposed to be bonding. Ed (contestant #1) was a software consultant. He owns a house. Rob (contestant #3) was a manager at a telecommunications firm. He also owns a house. I am a writer. I have been inside a house.

Rob was the sort of fellow who clearly knew how to "party hard" and "get a little wild." He was also physically fit and confident, and might as well have had "winner" tattooed to his forehead. Ed had a nervous charm about him, amplified somewhat by the fact that he actually wanted to win.

After our makeup was applied (sadly, there was no fluffer), the aprons went on, the gloves came off and the cameras started rolling. Lucy, the mystery woman, announced that she wanted a couscous and grilled vegetable salad with an orange vinaigrette. This was precisely when I realized Lucy and I probably had no future together. I don't go for that S&M stuff, and only a sadist would request a meal of such complexity. My suspicions were confirmed when she claimed to enjoy 10-kilometre jogs.

As part of the research for my chef character, I had flipped through many cookbooks and thoughtfully considered the pictures. I had also consulted with a cook friend of mine who works at Kalendar (located at the corner of College Street and cool). He advised me to make the food flavourful, to ensure it was presented tastefully, and most importantly, to marinade my slop with reckless abandon.

As we tossed our couscous about, Thea would periodically interrupt and get to know us better. She, too, asked me about the N.Y. blind date. (It's a long story, and I sold it to Chatelaine -- all you need to know is that it didn't work out.) The chefs each got to pose one question to the mystery girl. I asked, "What part of the bookstore would I find you in?" Lucy replied she was currently interested in feng shui and that she also liked trashy novels. Her apartment might be harmonious, but our debates about the relative merits of Danielle Steele and David Foster Wallace most likely wouldn't be.

The best way to a woman's heart might be through her stomach (provided the meal is low carb), but like many men, all of my best meals have involved serving the same thing: a MasterCard to a waiter. And even if I were an Iron Chef whose cuisine reigned supreme, the mystery woman only has one bite of each meal to discern this. So instead of worrying about taste or edibility, I focused on presentation. I converted my eggplant circles and zucchini sticks into a smiley face, which earned the audience laughter I felt it deserved.

Some believe that anticipation is the best part of romance (OK, sex) so I will keep mum about the winner (the episode airs in October). All I can say is that if Cooking For Love is the televisual equivalent of a personal ad -- a nymphomercial? -- then I clearly failed to sell the sizzle.

Contrary to rumour, the two leftover men are not forced to do the dishes, or worse, eat the meal they created. And continuing the standard of Canadian game- show prize opulence set by Definition, we received a bottle of Inniskillin Riesling, two packs of gum, a WTN mousepad, a Kitchenaid pamphlet, a spoon as wooden as my acting, two condoms and an apron. Perhaps more importantly, I was allowed to leave with my dignity intact.

Reality-based TV works best when the participants act fairly realistically. Despite the prep work, there is plenty of room for spontaneity on Cooking For Love, as evidenced by my bumping into Thea as I lumbered over to hit my mark during our first on-screen chat. She jumped, genuinely startled, and as the audience laughed, she looked up, way up (I'm 6-foot-5) at the friendly giant. If that ends up being my first and final brush with a Canadian celebrity, you won't hear me complaining.

Ryan Bigge's travelogue into the broken heart of darkness, A Very Lonely Planet, will be published by Arsenal Pulp Press in 2001.