In food competition shows, there's always some degree of conflict or drama over the question of objectivity. Was a contestant's dish treated fairly? Were teams split evenly for group challenges? Did the celebrity judges actually have the talent, technique, and sufficient awareness of the culinary traditions that inform the globally influenced dishes landing in front of them? Did bias find its way into the judging panel?
Whether fans are arguing over seemingly sudden decisions or wracking their brains to nitpick a critic's tasting notes, speculation and social media discourse have become intertwined with what many viewers define as a worthwhile watch — especially when it comes to Netflix's newly minted archives of compelling and hyper-produced competition shows like Physical 100, The Influencer, and its latest, Culinary Class Wars. The heavily bankrolled show takes a similar approach to its non-food-focused predecessors in assembling a crowd of 100 Korean culinary talents, including the chefs of Michelin-starred restaurants, social media creators with staggering global followings, and even a handful of international competitors like chef Edward Lee (but we'll get back to him in a bit).
From there, the cooks are split into two teams: 80 "Black Spoons," the show's moniker for the enterprising competitors who rose to acclaim outside of traditional fine dining kitchens, and 20 of those institutionally adored "White Spoons." From here, the contestants are mixed, matched, and paired for various challenges that test their cooking acumen. Along the way, Brooklyn-born Korean American chef Edward Kyun Lee slowly but surely differentiates himself through poignant and evocative confessionals that feel like excerpts cut directly from his 2019 memoir Buttermilk Graffiti.
But where the memoir focused on Lee's experiences exploring the "melting pot" cuisine evolving across the States, viewers can watch in real-time (sort of) as Lee chafes against the pains and struggles that, like in the reiteration of the "lunchbox moment," too often get painted as solely metaphorical.
It's in the initial uncertain glimpses that flash over team members' faces when first paired with Lee. It's in the questionably harsh critiques of the traditional Korean dishes Lee chooses to cite as inspirations. It's in the challenges that arise for Lee when ordering ingredients and realizing the Korean names for components carry different connotations, and thus, results in the sourcing of cuts of meat that are completely opposite of the preparations he planned.
And it's in this friction that we see Lee and so many other talents rise to the gaudily curated occasion. Each episode feels like a distinct competition arc from a deliciously overdramatic anime like Food Wars, or a hyper-sprint through vintage seasons of Iron Chef and Master Chef.
With each challenge and each raising of the stakes, we get a deeper understanding of Culinary Class Wars's ambition. Where Physical 100 aimed to display the awe-inspiring strength of Korean athletes, this show has a larger goal in mind: Establishing on an international stage the technique, rigor, and ambition that cooks across the Asian diaspora, but specifically Korean chefs (however they personally identify), bring to their craft. This isn't a show for showing off. It's a means of demanding the world treat Korean foods and culinary talents with higher regard globally, and without centering the West in these appeals.
Culinary Class Wars isn't prioritizing American audiences. (It neither needs to, nor drives them away.) Instead, it leaves the door open for familiar and new viewers to grow wistful for sheets of Auntie Omakase #1's carefully toasted and seasoned seaweed or Napoli Matfia's anxiety-fueled risotto. It's not perfect: a number of viewers left the last few episodes questioning the fairness of the judges' obviously preferential ratings. (Others noted that the judges' critiques of chefs' dish citations resembled the kind of consequence a Western chef might receive for misnaming a pasta shape or preparation.) But ultimately, objectivity isn't really the point — especially after controversy over rigged challenges sullied the second season of Physical 100.
Instead, it's to display on an international stage the galvanizing talents and personalities that have heavily shaped modern Korean cooking and restaurants, regardless of age, class, geography, gender, or an individual's cuisine specialty. Although the final episode might not feel wholly satisfying to some, the heart-rending vulnerability of Lee's storytelling throughout the series will more than make up for it. After all, what could be better than watching people who have clawed their way to the pinnacle of their nation's craft validate and celebrate each other? The show's not impartial, and that's a key component of what makes it so damn compelling. — Jesse Sparks, Eater.com senior editor
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