I’ve taken the liberty of asking ChatGPT how Gordon Ramsay would react to Castlevania Wall Meat. This is the response I was given…
Ramsay kicks open a gothic hallway door, already pissed. He smashes a wall out of frustration—THUD—and a giant hunk of meat plops out like it’s been waiting 400 years to traumatize someone.
He stares at it.
“Oh for fuck’s sake… what the hell is this?”
He picks it up like it’s radioactive.
“You’re telling me you lot survive in this deathtrap of a castle by eating meat that’s been shoved inside a fucking WALL? A WALL?!”
He turns to Trevor Belmont.
“Are you out of your batshit mind? This isn’t food—this is a medieval biohazard!”
Sniffs it. Immediate regret.
“Christ almighty! It smells like a fucking zombie’s crotch. Who cooked this? Who thought, ‘Oi, let’s hide a pork chop in the goddamn architecture’?”
He jabs it with a finger.
“Why is it lukewarm? Why is it moist? What is this, bloody necromancer sous-vide?”
Belmont tries to explain it restores health.
Ramsay snaps.
“RESTORES HEALTH?! This would put a fucking dragon in the ICU! This is how you get Tetanus Deluxe! This is how you get a parasite with a day job!”
He takes a heroic micro-bite—just enough to register the flavor… he immediately gags.
“Jesus tap-dancing Christ—It’s raw, it’s burnt, it’s fermented, and it tastes like someone tried to deep-fry a corpse in holy water!”
Throws it across the room.
“Right! Enough! I am SO bloody DONE with this castle. Dracula’s not your biggest threat—YOUR FOOD SAFETY IS!”
Points accusingly at the ancient stone wall.
“Stop hiding meat in structural fucking supports! It’s a kitchen, not a cryptic charcuterie board!”
He storms off.
“I’m redesigning this whole hellhole. First rule: NO MORE WALL-MEAT. Second rule: If I find a steak inside a chandelier, I’m burning this castle to the ground myself.”
Now you might be asking what does this have to do with Doctor Who? Well, absolutely nothing. However, The War Between The Sea And The Land is coming up soon and I have absolutely nothing to say about that piece of business, so you get this instead. Maybe I should have had Chef react to fish fingers and custard.
Right.
Let me… compose myself.
Because what I’m looking at—this… this culinary crime scene—is fish fingers and custard.
Fish fingers.
And custard.
Do you understand how violently my soul is recoiling right now? My palate is filing a restraining order.
Fish—the delicate, briny jewel of the sea, meant for precision, respect, finesse—has been dragged from the ocean, breaded like it lost a bet, fried within an inch of its life, and then, then, dumped into a bowl of custard so sweet it could put a dentist into early retirement.
This isn’t fusion; this is confusion.
This isn’t avant-garde; this is avant-garbage.
Michelin stars? My friend, this deserves Michelin tires, because it belongs under the wheels of a lorry.
Look at the custard. Look at it!
It’s sitting there like a yellow pond of despair, quietly begging to be put out of its misery as you dunk that poor, soggy fish stick into it. The texture clash alone is enough to give a grown chef night terrors.
This is the sort of dish that makes inspectors question their career choices.
A dish so misguided it should come with a map and a goddamn apology.
If you served this to a Michelin inspector, they wouldn’t just walk out. They’d ascend.
They’d leave their physical body behind like, “No, I’m done with Earth. This planet clearly has no hope.”
And the worst part?
Some lunatic, somewhere, ate this with enthusiasm.
Willingly.
I swear on every copper pan I own:
This is not food.
This is a culinary cry for help dressed as a children’s tea-time experiment gone catastrophically rogue.
Now take it away.
Take it away before it multiplies.
Before it evolves.
Before it becomes sentient and applies for a Michelin star ironically.
There you go. Now it’s Doctor Who related.
dtm666 