//------------------------------// // Gordon Ramsay in Equestria // Story: Half-Baked Biscuits // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Gordon Ramsay in Equestria Admiral Biscuit As often as not, the best-kept treasures were off the beaten path. The outside of a restaurant didn’t always foretell the quality of the food—both of these statements were truths that Gordon Ramsay knew.  Just the same, there was a bit of a slump to his shoulders as he beheld the restaurant in front of him, a moment before he adjusted his human expectations back to what was decidedly non-human. Had this stone edifice with its thatched roof been back on Earth practically anywhere, the mere sight of its facade would have been a reasonable indication of the dreck served to customers, to people who were willing to brave the uninspired menu for the experience and the opportunities to Instagram said experience to the masses. Taken out of that light and put into context, it fit the surroundings. It wasn’t pretentious, it wasn’t pretending to be something that it wasn’t. The buildings around it were constructed similarly, raw stone weathered by the winds and the seas, a neat thatched roof—a substantial building, one that squats on the land as which says it won’t be moved. One that will be there rain or shine, sun or storm, whenever someone—whenever somepony wants to have a meal. There were rules about dressing a restaurant, and even the ponies sometimes went too far. He’d been in trendy Canterlot eating establishments where the point was to get a reservation and to be seen. He’d been to Manehattan restaurants where the food was new and edgy and human-inspired and he’d also eaten a meal at a thermopolium, which only sold two kinds of porridge, both of which were delicious. The sign was simple, a shingle painted with a mug of beer and a cutie mark. In the interests of television, one of his cameramen went in first, in order to show his face as he went through the front doors for the first time. There was that brief moment where he wondered as he always did if that cheapened the moment, if that gave the occupants of the restaurant time to reflect on the fact that they were about to be on national TV, if it gave the owners and the cooks and servers warning, but it couldn’t be avoided. People wanted to see that, wanted to see the moment where he found a dead rodent right by the front door and the wait staff’s unlikely denials of how such a creature could have gotten there. When he went far enough afield that nobody knew who he was, save that he was a white man with cameras, he got a more genuine reaction. Here, he’d managed the soft lob. Ponies didn’t rush up and mob him, either drawn to his fame or drawn to the fact that he was not a pony and therefore worthy of interest. Likewise, they didn’t panic or worry, and they were either unaware of what the camera portented, or didn’t care. Inside, it was exactly what he should have expected, what he would have expected if years of cynicism hadn’t fully sprouted in his mind. A tavern, no more, no less. A meeting place, an eating place. Warm and inviting despite the cold stone and dark wood. Here, he was not such a celebrity that the owner rushed over to take his order, nor watch on from nearby, trying to gauge his satisfaction or disappointment as each dish was offered. Sometimes old habits died hard, and he couldn’t help but make an estimate based on the crowd of the popularity of the place, reminding himself as he did that ponies didn’t operate on the same schedule as humans, especially out of the city. There wasn't a maitre’d, nor a hostess’ stand, so he picked a table. A moment later, an adolescent pony wearing naught but an apron came over. “Welcome to Zucche’s! I’m Irio! Would you like a menu?” “Yes, please.” He wasn’t a master of Equestrian, not by a long shot, but he was good enough to be understood. She flounced off in the manner of waitresses the world over, and quickly returned with the menu. “Do you have any specials?” That was always a good question, and often gave him the measure of the restaurant. She shrugged. “The Cassoulet is pretty good, but I dunno if you’d call it special. Maybe you’d like a black bean crunchwrap supreme? That’s popular.” “I’m sorry, a crunchwrap supreme? What’s that?” “It’s black beans and lettuce and tomatoes and sour cream and nacho cheese wrapped in a burrito with a taco half for crunchiness. It’s really good, just like at Taco Bell.” “At Taco Bell?” She nodded earnestly. “Zucche makes them just like Taco Bell does. You—you do know about Taco Bell, don’t you? They have them on Earth.” “The Taco Bell?” Irio nodded. “We got the proper recipe, and we’re the only tavern on the coast that does.” When it came to fast food, Gordan Ramsay knew little beyond that it existed. It was better that way. Nonetheless, he hadn’t yet encountered an Earth restaurant franchised in Equestria, and as much as this one screamed ‘anything but faux Mexican food’, he was willing to give it a try. “Also, you have a catch of the day, what’s that?” She shrugged. “Whatever we catch. Mostly its fish but sometimes if it’s a bad day for sailing it’s sand crabs.” She leaned a bit closer. “Once it was catfish. That was a real bad day.” Gordon nodded, even though mentally he was watching a tennis match and not quite sure where the ball was, or even if there was one. “What is it today?” “Mostly redfish so far—they’re really going for the bait today.” “Well, I’ll try that.” “Cooked or raw?” “Excuse me?” Irio blushed slightly. “Sorry, I don’t know humans all that well. You can have the fish cooked or raw, whichever you prefer.” Gordon glanced back down at the menu, and reached a decision. “I’ll try the burgoo, one crunchwrap, and two catch of the days, one cooked and one . . . not.” “Wow, you must be really hungry.” She eyed him up and down. “Okay, and do you want anything to drink? We’ve got cider and beer and wine and milk.” “Do you have water?” She shrugged. “Salty or not?” “Not.” As soon as the camera crew had gotten a parting shot of her headed towards the kitchen, Gordon turned to the camera. “I don’t want to make any assumptions here, but horses like salt licks, and they may enjoy salty water. I doubt this restaurant gets much in the way of human clientele.” “There was a girl in here,” one of the cameramen remarked. “Left when we came in. Sitting over in that corner booth with a blue pegasus.” “Really?” “Surprised you didn’t see her. She . . . she’d gone native.” ••• The waitress hadn’t said anything about a bread bowl, but she’d brought one out with his glass of water. Gordon took a sip of the water first, then picked up a slice of bread. It was dark, speckled with seeds, and felt heavy in his hand. As the secondary cameraman angled around for a closeup of the bread, he looked up at the first. “I can’t identify half of what they put in this. I’m going to take a bite of the corner and see if I can figure it out.” He tore a piece loose and sniffed at it, then popped it into his mouth. “Grainy, grassy, very dense. An interesting flavor, not one that I personally prefer, but honestly you could make an entire meal out of the bread, and I think it would stay with you for half the day. They’ve got fennel in here, I can taste that, and there’s a bit of a bite—they might be using a sourdough starter on the loaf.” He picked up a couple of pieces and hefted them. “You could kill a man with a stale loaf, it’s that heavy. Jesus.” He’d barely finished one slice of bread when the waitress returned, once again with a plate balanced on her back. “Here’s your raw catch of the day—it’s a tripletail. Salty just caught it.” “Hold on a minute,” he said, looking at the fish on his plate and playing back the prior conversation in his mind. “This is raw.” That was undeniably the truth. It was not only raw, it was a whole fish, just as it had been caught. Complete from head to tail, unscaled, ungutted, and entirely unmolested. “You said you wanted a catch of the day raw and one cooked, so this is the raw one. Fresh from the ocean . . . you got lucky, tripletails like to fight and they’re really hard to catch. A lotta pegasi would be happy to have it.” Her ears drooped, and she looked at the cameramen in turn, who were focusing on the fish and her respectively. “How do humans have raw fish?” In any of his shows on Earth, Gordon would have torn her a new one.  There was a measure of trust when a person went to a restaurant, which when stripped down to the most basic element was that the food wouldn’t make a person sick. And he could honestly say that he had been in restaurants on Earth which couldn’t even get that basic expectation right. There were any number of doe-eyed tourists who thought a trip to Equestria was like a trip to Disneyland but with ponies, and as long as they stuck to the main human attractions, maybe it was. He was on a culinary adventure—hardly the first of his career—and couldn’t apply human rules to the food he was offered. Ponies might be able to eat a raw fish, fresh from the sea, with no ill effect, but he wasn’t willing to try. Nor was he willing to berate the waitress for bringing him exactly what he’d asked for. He’d wanted a fresh fish, and the only way this one could be fresher would be if it was still swimming. “Humans can’t eat fish raw,” he said softly, placing a hand on her withers. “Not this raw, anyway. I’m sorry. I should have asked you to be more specific about what I was ordering.” He looked around the tavern, where numerous ponies were enjoying their meals despite the disruption of his cameramen. “I haven’t touched this fish, and I’d hate to see it go to waste, especially if it’s one that I’m lucky to have. Are there any other peo—ponies in the restaurant who might like it instead?” Irio glanced around the restaurant and nodded. “Over there,” she said, pointing. “Tira-Mi-Su and Mochanut.” “Give it to them, please.” Sne nodded and took the plate off his table. He watched as she placed it in front of them and gave a brief explanation of its origin, pointing once to him as the source of the bounty. Irio came back to his table to tell him that they’d been honored by his gift, but he hadn’t needed her to tell him; he’d been watching as the pair had picked up the fish and nibbled at it, worked it over like a chicken wing, leaving little behind except for the tail and a few bones. One of them had even swallowed the head whole, after they’d finished with the main parts of the fish. “That’s something you don’t see every day,” one of the cameramen muttered. “Literally every inch of your roll is something you don’t see every day,” Gordon said. “Including naked chick in restaurant.” “You’re pulling my leg.” “Nope, that happened. Maybe she’ll come back for dinner.” ••• Some of the fancier restaurants he’d visited in Manehattan and Canterlot had cared about plating, while most of them didn’t. While he knew that plating wasn’t a reliable indicator of the quality of food, it was still the first look a potential customer had at what they were about to eat, and Gordon firmly believed that it had a psychological effect on the taste—unless the food was so bad that no presentation could save it, or on rarer occasions where it was so good it could have been served in a trash can and he still would have asked for seconds. He’d given them a pass on the dead fish on a plate. It had been exactly what he’d ordered, after all, and dressing it up would have been silly. He also mentally gave more isolated eateries a pass, and this one certainly qualified. So he was pleasantly surprised with the burgoo. It looked like oatmeal, and it was served in a bowl. A bright yellow flower adorned the top, making it look more cheery, and there was also a little sprinkle of nutmeg on the top. There wasn’t a spoon.  This was something that Gordon had figured out already. Restaurants run by unicorns always included silverware. Those which were fancy offered it, while the more homely establishments didn’t tend to have it. It made sense; two thirds of the statistical population rarely used it, and in places where unicorns made up less than a third of the mix, they were just expected to do as the other ponies did. When in Rome and all that. Normally, Gordon didn’t comment on the dishes, not unless they were particularly horrible. This being a bit of a departure from his normal fare, he couldn’t help himself. “Look, here around the edges, you can see where the enamel is scratched and scuffed. Some of the ponies wear shoes, and that must be terrible for the dishes.” He nodded his head over to a nearby table, where the two earth ponies were supping on burgoo. Each of them would pinch the bowl between their forehooves and bring it up to their mouths, at least until they noticed a camera pointed in their direction. Most people would have been honored to be on his show, but the ponies didn’t go for television all that much, and in the more rural areas didn’t particularly care for the baggage that went with his show. It was a delicate balance, giving an adoring television audience what they wanted, and having a genuine experience. He’d sneaked into a few traditional restaurants sans camera crew, and he’d experienced the whole gamut of reactions, from fear to flattery. “I suppose I’m meant to enjoy it that way. . . .” He picked the bowl up and brought it to his nose. “Hint of molasses, and a bit heavy on the salt, but not too much.” He tilted the bowl experimentally, just to make sure it wasn’t too liquid-y. TV audiences might get a laugh if he poured his meal down his shirt, but he’d rather not. “Hmm, interesting. A basic oatmeal, done just right. More salt than I’d prefer, but not offensive, and the molasses adds quite a bit of sweetness. A bowl of this would get you going for the day, that’s for sure.” The flower changed the scent of the burgoo, and he looked over to the nearby table. They didn’t have flowers in theirs. “Am I meant to eat it?” He tore off a petal and popped it in his mouth. “Plenty of flowers are edible, and can easily add variety to a plain dish, both from color and flavor. A nice touch, and it really does complement the burgoo.” “So do you figure they know what they’re doing here?” one of the cameramen asked.  “The raw fish is a wash, chalk it up to species differences. This burgoo, though, I like. Simple fare, but quite good—prepared perfectly.” ••• The crunchwrap supreme came up next. It was, Gordon believed, exactly as described. He hadn’t ever eaten Taco Bell food and was perfectly content to live out the rest of his life without partaking. The only thing it missed was being wrapped in paper, with printing to inform the consumer what it actually was. And he had to admit, if Irio hadn’t confessed to its origin, he wouldn’t have made the connection. It would have just been an out-of-place item on an otherwise themed menu, a standard dish that every restaurant in a particular niche served because it was expected. Pizzarias served pepperoni pizzas, Chinese restaurants served General Tso’s chicken, American restaurants had burgers, and British restaurants had fish and chips, that was just the nature of the thing. While he hadn’t yet seen crunchwrap supremes on pony menus, he couldn’t rule out that it was a rural treat, nor that it was inspired by Taco Bell of all places. As was his wont, he spent a moment examining his food before tucking in. Despite his brash demeanor on countless TV shows, Gordon did appreciate cultural cooking, even if he didn’t always understand it. He was self-aware enough to know that the world didn’t revolve around him or his palette, and made a conscious effort to temper his expectations accordingly. Thinking back only a few minutes, he would have railed against any chef on Earth who thought it was acceptable to offer a complete dead fish on a plate as a special of the day, yet here Tir-Mi-Su and Mochanut had devoured the thing without any hesitation. The crunchwrap supreme could have been some existing cultural dish, fancied up into a human package because of course everybody wanted something new and exotic. Or it could have been a shameless copy of an existing dish, something that didn’t fit into the gestalt of traditional cooking but which had been shoehorned in, and he knew he wasn’t culturally aware enough to render a verdict. Television must, so after an exploratory bite, he shook his head. It might taste just like Taco Bell’s, that was something he didn’t have the culinary experience to confirm. Nonetheless, it wasn’t good. ••• Back on Earth, he was a celebrity. Back on Earth, when he went into a restaurant, any staff worth their salt knew who he was, and reacted accordingly. Here in Equestria, he was a human tourist, and worse than that, he was a human tourist with two cameramen. That was something he’d always struggled with when he went to remote locations and sampled the food; it was one of the faults of television and the demands of the audience. TV watchers wanted to see his reactions in the moment, not have him describe them afterwards. They wanted to see his clear the plate or more likely spit the abomination into a napkin, Gordon was no expert on ponies, so it was hard to say how their reactions were altered by the cameras. Some of them kept looking in his direction while others ignored him, and a few ignored him with intent, possibly thinking that if they didn’t pay attention, he might disappear. Such was the nature of fame; they weren’t entirely wrong. So far, he still didn’t have a proper understanding of the restaurant’s food. He’d had one dish which he couldn’t even eat, one which was fantastic, and another that was at best uninspired. None of the other ponies he saw as he scanned the dining areas were eating it. ••• Their waitress was reasonably attentive, and when she had a bit of a lull time and came over to check on their drinks, Gordon asked her about the burgoo. “It’s kinda traditional on ships,” she said. “Bigger ships, mostly, but lots of ponies have gotten used to it, and like a bowl before or after work. Did you like it?” “I did. It’s basically a porridge.” “And you can season it with whatever you have, you can make it sweeter or saliter if you like.” “Does your cook always make it the same?” Irio shook her head. “It depends on the seasons, what flowers are available, and if ponies have a lot of work to do. She puts in more salt and sometimes fish if there’s a big feral storm and all the pegasi are working hard. During the spring planting, she makes it a bit thicker and with more molasses or honey so it’s got more energy to keep a pony going. And in the summer when it’s hot, she makes it thin and with a lot of flowers so she can serve it a bit cooler and it doesn’t weigh down your belly.” “Thank you,” Gordon said, and once she’d gone off to another table, he turned to face the camera. “That’s quite impressive, tailoring a dish to current conditions and the availability of fresh food. There aren’t many restaurants on Earth that would do that, that would alter menu items on a day-by-day basis. Some of us are so used to always buying the same things, to always having the same food available that we get complacent.” ••• “Your cooked catch of the day,” Irio announced, setting the plate down with a flourish. “Coalfish with breadcrumbs and timothy.” “Coalfish?” “It’s kinda like cod, but darker,” she informed him. “There’s a bit of cheese on there as well—humans like cheese, don’t they?” “It smells delicious, thank you.” He looked down at his plate, where his fish was sitting on a bed of grass which was likely a salad. While he was unlikely to derive any useful calories from the grass, it was part of the experience. Not surprisingly, his main course also didn’t come with utensils, so he tore a piece loose. “Light and flaky, looks to have been properly cooked.” He held it up to the camera, edge-on. “Just look at that cut . . . magnificent. The cook really knows what he’s doing here.” Gordon took a bite, a smile on his face before he’d swallowed. “Oh, this is perfect. Practically melts in your mouth. Let’s try a bit of the grass as a chaser. See if it complements the flavor.” He picked up a few blades, turning them over in his fingers before committing. “Hmm, chewy, just a hint of salt, about the perfect complement. This is fantastic; I’d put their chef up against any on Earth . . . if she really does know how to prepare whatever’s brought to her fresh.” He took another bite, following it up with more grass. “I can’t say that I approved of the raw fish, but this here is magnificent. I think once I finish, I need to go back into the kitchen and meet the chef.”