How I Spent Christmas: Accidentally Watching Culinary Class Wars and Overthinking It

I hesitate to write posts like this sometimes.

When we search for blogs, especially in beauty, fashion, or lifestyle — we usually get titles like “How to Find the Best ___” or “5 Ways to Improve ___”. They’re useful, sure. But they often feel polished, optimised, and written with a clear end goal in mind. I personally enjoy learning about people’s journeys — how they think, live, and make decisions. Who knows how many people actually read and enjoy them? 50? 100? 1,000? 10,000? So if you do too, stick around!

Anyway — I accidentally landed on Culinary Wars Season 2, episodes 3 and 4. And then I got hooked.

Call me an over-analyser, but once I start watching people who are very, very good at what they do, my brain can’t help itself.

I’m not a foodie. I don’t belong in a kitchen. I don’t think deeply about flavours, plating, or textures in my daily life. But when you watch masters like these, you realise they’re using ingredients in ways most of us would never think of. Oil and egg yolk — who looks at that and thinks, this will become mayo? It reminded me of makeup, mixing A and B to get C.

Watching masters at work, or just anybody that goes above and beyond in their craft, that’s when you see how technicality matters. How precision matters. How intention matters.

One contestant in the show was known as a “rebel chef.” And watching him cook, I couldn’t help but think about my own approach to colour and image consulting. He didn’t reject technique — he understood it deeply — but he wasn’t confined by it either. Sometimes, breaking the rules is the only way forward. You have to step outside the box once you know why the box exists in the first place. He eventually went up against his own teacher — and won.

Strangely, it didn’t feel like a loss.

If anything, the teacher looked proud. And I recognised that feeling immediately. It’s exactly how I feel when my own team performs well — or even surpasses me in certain areas. That’s not failure. That’s continuity. That’s growth. That’s also a job done well.

Another thing that struck me was how interpretation differs so wildly. Give two incredible chefs the same ingredients, and you’ll still end up with completely different outcomes.

Isn’t that exactly like makeup?

The variables aren’t just tools and products. They’re lived experience, intuition, restraint, confidence. Even speed. Everyone had a time limit — just like makeup. Your model can only sit there for so long. You have to think fast, but not carelessly. Decisive, but intentional.

Similarly, your kitchen equipment and tools are like your makeup brushes and products. They’re just tools — but quality and familiarity make a difference. Just like good, premium brushes versus cheaper, less quality ones — when you know your tools well, they don’t get in the way of your work. They support it. At the same time, they’re just tools. In the right hands, even the simplest ones can produce something exceptional.

Then there was a monk.

Watching her cook felt… different. There was so much thought put into each choice, beyond just taste. Even the judge commented that it might have been more thoughtful than a chef’s dish.

It reminded me of the decisions you make during a makeup application — choices that aren’t always visible, but matter deeply.

What became very clear was this:

Everyone there was a master — and yet, outcomes differed wildly.

Because creativity is subjective. Judges bring their own experiences, preferences, and biases. The “best” isn’t always universal — it’s contextual. Often, the judge isn’t a panel, but a face, a moment, or a society that receives your work. And I think people forget that when they go looking for formulas in art, beauty, or success.

I also loved watching the less-known contestants gather the courage to challenge the more reputable ones. And watching masters still choose to learn from others. Because learning — and keeping a learner’s mindset — is the only way you grow.

Just like makeup, you begin to notice how every element matters. Hair. Skin. Lighting. Photography. Even the colour of a backdrop or a top. In food, it’s the same — each component stands on its own, yet must work together. Like chicken rice: the chilli, the cucumber, the rice, the chicken, the dark sauce. Remove one, and the whole experience shifts.

Knowing when something is enough. When something is already good — but self-doubt creeps in, making you feel like it’s too plain, not impressive enough. And so you add more. Sometimes, that extra step doesn’t elevate the work — it distracts from what was already strong.

It’s the same with makeup.

On shows like these, contestants only get one chance to make it work. That one bite has to land. There’s no second attempt, no adjustment after the fact. And in makeup, it’s similar — you can’t please everyone. In the end, what matters is the person receiving the work. You might think a client looks incredible with something added on, but if she doesn’t feel like herself — or simply doesn’t like it — then it doesn’t work. No matter how technically sound it is.

Koreans really do survival shows exceptionally well. At one point, someone said something along the lines of: experience sharpens artistry, and class never fades. It reminded me so much of Just Makeup — except this time, the medium was food. Different tools, different canvas, but the same principles apply.

Fully agreed.

Experience shows. Quiet confidence shows.

That was my Christmas this year. Oddly inspiring.