Self
Ali Güngörmüs
Self
Roadtrip Australia – Three Top Chefs on Four Wheels
2026
1 Season • 5 Episodes
Documentary
Overview
Renowned chefs Alexander Kumptner, Frank Rosin, and Ali Güngörmüş are embarking on a fresh culinary journey, this time traveling through Australia. Following three seasons spent exploring the United States together, the trio now turns their attention to the continent known for its sweeping Outback and distinctive food culture — from seafood and grilled specialties to native bush ingredients, locally caught barramundi, and celebrated regional wines.
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Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Culinary Horizon: Australia, Measured in Kilometers
There is something inherently absurd, and yet oddly touching, about the spectacle of three highly decorated, ego-driven men crammed into a vehicle, hurtling across a continent that doesn't care if they arrive on time. In *Roadtrip Australia – Three Top Chefs on Four Wheels*, Alexander Kumptner, Frank Rosin, and Ali Güngörmüs trade the familiar highways of the American Southwest for the vast, dusty expanse of the Australian Outback. Having watched them navigate three seasons of similar American treks, I thought I knew exactly what the dynamic would be: the classic comedy of errors where culinary pretension meets the indifference of the open road. But Australia forces a shift. The landscape here is too immense, too ancient, to be conquered by a witty remark or a perfectly plated scallop.
The series succeeds not when it’s focused on the food—though the segments on native bush ingredients are undeniably educational—but when it focuses on the friction. Frank Rosin has long played the role of the seasoned, perhaps slightly weary mentor figure, while Kumptner brings a frantic, modern energy that acts as a lightning rod for the group’s tensions. Güngörmüs, meanwhile, serves as the ballast, the steady hand that often keeps the ship from capsizing. It’s a delicate, unscripted chemistry. You see it in the way they handle silence. In earlier seasons, they filled the quiet with chatter, with constant performance. Here, the landscape—the sheer, oppressive scale of the bush—seems to silence them. They aren't chefs on a mission; they are three men momentarily humbled by a horizon that refuses to end.
What really struck me was the editing rhythm. It’s easy in a travelogue to cut quickly, to keep the pace frantic so the viewer doesn't get bored. But here, the editor seems to have made a conscious choice to let the car windows serve as frames. We see the world through the glass, slightly distorted, a bit reflective. It reminded me of something Wim Wenders once said about the road movie—that it’s less about reaching a destination and more about the way the character is constructed by the movement itself. These men are being reconfigured by the journey. The high-stress, high-stakes kitchen environments they inhabit back in Europe feel miles, and perhaps lifetimes, away.
There’s a specific scene in the third episode where the trio stops to source ingredients near a regional creek. It isn't a "chef moment" in the traditional sense; there’s no frantic chopping or yelling about seasoning. Instead, they are just standing there, looking at the water. Kumptner, usually the one trying to make everything into a television moment, drops his shoulders. He looks smaller, less like a celebrity chef and more like a guy who’s just spent too many hours in a campervan. The interaction between them isn't about their resumes; it’s about the fact that they are the only three people on earth who understand the specific, lonely weight of their profession. As *Variety* noted regarding the chemistry of this specific trio in their American runs, they function best when "the culinary bravado peels away to reveal the exhaustion underneath." That exhaustion feels real here.
The inclusion of indigenous ingredients isn't treated with the kind of performative reverence that often plagues modern food documentaries. It’s treated with a quiet, slightly awkward curiosity. They don't pretend to be experts; they listen more than they speak. And that’s the pivot point. When you are a master of your craft, stepping into a space where you are a novice is a terrifying thing. Watching these three grapple with that loss of status—the uncertainty of how to treat a native berry or a cut of meat they’ve never touched—is the most authentic thing the series offers.
I’m not entirely sure this season works for the casual viewer who just wants to see fancy plates of food. If you are looking for the next *Chef’s Table*, you will be disappointed by the loose, occasionally messy structure of their travelogue. It’s unpolished. It meanders. But there is a humanity in that messiness that feels rare. By the time they hit the coast, looking weary, salt-stained, and genuinely appreciative of a meal they didn't have to cook themselves, I found myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, the point of the road trip wasn't the food at all. It was the realization that even the people who spend their lives telling us how to eat are sometimes just looking for a reason to sit down, be quiet, and look at the view.
There is something inherently absurd, and yet oddly touching, about the spectacle of three highly decorated, ego-driven men crammed into a vehicle, hurtling across a continent that doesn't care if they arrive on time. In *Roadtrip Australia – Three Top Chefs on Four Wheels*, Alexander Kumptner, Frank Rosin, and Ali Güngörmüs trade the familiar highways of the American Southwest for the vast, dusty expanse of the Australian Outback. Having watched them navigate three seasons of similar American treks, I thought I knew exactly what the dynamic would be: the classic comedy of errors where culinary pretension meets the indifference of the open road. But Australia forces a shift. The landscape here is too immense, too ancient, to be conquered by a witty remark or a perfectly plated scallop.
The series succeeds not when it’s focused on the food—though the segments on native bush ingredients are undeniably educational—but when it focuses on the friction. Frank Rosin has long played the role of the seasoned, perhaps slightly weary mentor figure, while Kumptner brings a frantic, modern energy that acts as a lightning rod for the group’s tensions. Güngörmüs, meanwhile, serves as the ballast, the steady hand that often keeps the ship from capsizing. It’s a delicate, unscripted chemistry. You see it in the way they handle silence. In earlier seasons, they filled the quiet with chatter, with constant performance. Here, the landscape—the sheer, oppressive scale of the bush—seems to silence them. They aren't chefs on a mission; they are three men momentarily humbled by a horizon that refuses to end.
What really struck me was the editing rhythm. It’s easy in a travelogue to cut quickly, to keep the pace frantic so the viewer doesn't get bored. But here, the editor seems to have made a conscious choice to let the car windows serve as frames. We see the world through the glass, slightly distorted, a bit reflective. It reminded me of something Wim Wenders once said about the road movie—that it’s less about reaching a destination and more about the way the character is constructed by the movement itself. These men are being reconfigured by the journey. The high-stress, high-stakes kitchen environments they inhabit back in Europe feel miles, and perhaps lifetimes, away.
There’s a specific scene in the third episode where the trio stops to source ingredients near a regional creek. It isn't a "chef moment" in the traditional sense; there’s no frantic chopping or yelling about seasoning. Instead, they are just standing there, looking at the water. Kumptner, usually the one trying to make everything into a television moment, drops his shoulders. He looks smaller, less like a celebrity chef and more like a guy who’s just spent too many hours in a campervan. The interaction between them isn't about their resumes; it’s about the fact that they are the only three people on earth who understand the specific, lonely weight of their profession. As *Variety* noted regarding the chemistry of this specific trio in their American runs, they function best when "the culinary bravado peels away to reveal the exhaustion underneath." That exhaustion feels real here.
The inclusion of indigenous ingredients isn't treated with the kind of performative reverence that often plagues modern food documentaries. It’s treated with a quiet, slightly awkward curiosity. They don't pretend to be experts; they listen more than they speak. And that’s the pivot point. When you are a master of your craft, stepping into a space where you are a novice is a terrifying thing. Watching these three grapple with that loss of status—the uncertainty of how to treat a native berry or a cut of meat they’ve never touched—is the most authentic thing the series offers.
I’m not entirely sure this season works for the casual viewer who just wants to see fancy plates of food. If you are looking for the next *Chef’s Table*, you will be disappointed by the loose, occasionally messy structure of their travelogue. It’s unpolished. It meanders. But there is a humanity in that messiness that feels rare. By the time they hit the coast, looking weary, salt-stained, and genuinely appreciative of a meal they didn't have to cook themselves, I found myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, the point of the road trip wasn't the food at all. It was the realization that even the people who spend their lives telling us how to eat are sometimes just looking for a reason to sit down, be quiet, and look at the view.