While it suffered the fate demanded by its sheer unadulterated tediousness, HK did leave us with one saving virtue: it could be the program that forces the suits to admit the cooking-contest pantry is finally bare.

This once-hearty genre has been reheated and re-served so many times our appetite for it has all but disappeared. When first we tried it we smacked our lips, rubbed our bellies and said "that was delicious". So what did the networks do? They served it up again. And again and again and again.

Now we're like Monsieur Creosote in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life: each new dish merely makes us gag. "Bring us a bucket", we groan as a new show is wheeled to the table.

The makers of the wafer-thin mint slice that was Hell's Kitchen imagined the sight of celebrities struggling to cook was itself reason enough to watch. This assumed viewers might (a) care about a bunch of B-graders, at least half of whom they'd never heard of, and (b) believe that when it comes time for dinner said wannabes aren't a whole lot more familiar with ligging* than they are with lugging groceries home from the supermarket. Peril factor: zero. Interest factor: about the same.

The only thing truly hellish about Marco Pierre White's fauxlebrity pantomime was its ratings. Even during finals week, roughly nobody gave a damn.

On Monday night, just over half a million tuned in across Australia's five mainland capital cities. The late-afternoon game show Hot Seat, on Nine, attracted more viewers than Seven's offering in primetime. Tuesday's finale was even worse, most of it averaging 482,000 viewers before the winner announced final flurry surged (ha!) to 528,000.

If this were happening on Ten, we'd take it as one more sign of a network in catastrophic freefall. Seven can, however - at least for now - brush it off as nothing more than a fleeting case of indigestion.

The real takeaway from Marco's flame-out should be clear, though: we're stuffed to the gills with cooking shows. As Adam Ant so memorably put it, that dish has lost its taste, so try another flavour.

The networks love them, though, because they are mostly cheap to make and easy to sell to advertisers desperate to reach that all-important GB 35+ demographic (GB = grocery buyer). Best of all, you can just stuff the ad breaks full of FMCG spots (fast-moving consumer goods - ie, the stuff you buy in supermarkets). You can stuff the show full of them, too!

Ten's afternoon line-up depends on cheap foodie shows such as the UK import Alive and Cooking and the local offering Everyday Gourmet, starring former MasterChef contestant Justine Schofield. Seven's Hell's Kitchen is followed by Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. SBS has an entire channel dedicated to food, but still finds room for River Cottage Australia on its main channel. Nine and the ABC are on a food-free diet on their main channels at the moment, but they're bound to develop cravings before long.

Justine Schofield has shown there is life after MasterChef. Photo: Ten

There's nothing intrinsically wrong with showing people how to cook - come late-afternoon, who doesn't need some inspiration occasionally? - but the cooking contest as primetime fodder has surely run its course. (A declaration here: though I like to cook, I rarely do so. I am married to a woman who is both more passionate and more skilful than I am, so these days I mostly reap the benefits of her labours instead.)

When MasterChef debuted on Ten in 2009 it was a breath of fresh air. Here was a show that celebrated ordinary Australians doing what so many of us do - looking around the pantry, scratching our heads, and then trying to come up with something interesting, tasty, maybe even exciting, on the spot. That the best of these home cooks could then be coached into stepping it up to a whole other level was truly exciting. No wonder it sparked a boom in sales of cookbooks and kitchen gadgets. The whole thing was both inspirational and aspirational.

MasterChef invites viewers to watch contestants succeed. Photo: Ten

Of course, Ten couldn't leave well enough alone. They tinkered with the recipe - giving us a kids' version (not terrible) and a celebrity version (pretty terrible), and messed with the core ingredients of the main show (more celebrity chefs, fewer celebrity chefs, simpler recipes, more insanely difficult challenges) - until they almost killed the goose that laid the golden poached-at-67-degrees-for-precisely-90-minutes egg. But the master stock remained strong, and the show still works, just about.

My Kitchen Rules has, in terms of viewer numbers, been even more successful. Born out of a failed show (My Restaurant Rules) and a little lucky to survive a middling but not stellar first season, MKR has become a ratings juggernaut by serving up lashings and lashings of hubris with a side of schadenfreude. While MasterChef appeals to our better instincts, MKR appeals to our worst: we watch because we love to see the ego-filled airheads over-promise and under-deliver, time after time. Failure never gets old.

MKR, on the other hand, invites us to watch contestants fail, and their rivals revel in it. Photo: Seven

Though maybe it does. This year's average audience for MKR was its lowest since season one. For the first time since season three, it was not the most-watched show of the week. It's too soon to say MKR has gone off, but it wouldn't hurt to sneak a peek at the use-by date. You can bet the suits at Seven have.

The imitators have come and, mostly, gone. We've had Iron Chef Australia (Seven), My Restaurant Rules and Restaurant Revolution (both Seven), The Hotplate (Nine), The Great Australian Bake-Off (Nine and Foxtel), The Chef's Line (SBS), Zumbo's Just Desserts (Seven), Come Dine With Me and Celebrity Come Dine With Me (Foxtel), Aussie Barbecue Heroes (Seven) and Recipe to Riches (Ten). A mighty memorable bunch, right?

There are, of course, still good food programs being made - Chef's Table on Netflix is a gloriously produced exploration of the idea of the chef as auteur. Michael Winterbottom's The Trip - which plays as both TV series and feature film - uses the fine-dining experience as mere backdrop to a different kind of performance: the competitive grandstanding of its stars, Rob Bryden and Steve Coogan. Neither is to everyone's taste, but both offer plenty of reward for the refined palate.

There are other fine local offerings in the niche areas, too - like Adam Liaw's Destination series, which marries travel and food (as you do), and Matthew Evans' For The Love of Meat, which brings an ethical perspective to the table.

Adam Liaw's Destination series marries food and travel to great effect. Photo: SBS

But competitive cooking as prime-time fodder? It seems we've all gone a little cold on that concept.

It's time to call last orders. It's time for the suits to look elsewhere for the next great idea. And then they can all imitate it endlessly, until there's not a drop of life left in that one either.

*Ligging: To attend a function or event, especially in the entertainment industry, at which free entertainment and refreshments are available, with the specific aim of taking advantage of said offerings. One who does so is known as a ligger.

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