Gorden Ramsey x Lamb Sauce

Hee hee

"FOR FUCKS SAKE!" Gorden hollered at the young chef who had dropped the balsamic vinaigrette on the floor of his 5-star Michelin restaurant. "Sorry sir" Ragú trembled. He bent down and started licking the dressing off the white tile, being sure to get every last drop. Gorden shook his head and looked around at the other cooks in his restaurant kitchen. They were working as hard as they could, sautéing steaks with sprigs of herbs, whisking together batter for the dessert of the night, and preparing lamb fillets, fresh from the farm just outside of town. "I'm going to bring this dish out myself SINCE NONE OF YOU CRUSTY FUCK WAFFLES CAN!" Gorden snatched a plate of salmon from the hands of a waitress and stormed out of the kitchen.

The restaurant was filled chatter and the aromas of various herbs and spices. Gorden walked briskly over to table number nine, holding the thicc salmon filet. "Right then, here we are, one beautiful salmon filet. And how's everything else?" "Great, thank you chef Ramsey" the guests nodded in agreement. Gorden turned around and was about to head back to the kitchen when a small voice piped up. "My lamb is a bit underdone." A little boy who looked suspiciously like Michael Jackson raised his hand. "Right, let's see then. Lamb often looks redder than other—WHAT THE FUCK?" The lamb wasn't even cooked. The raw meat sat mushily on the plate, with several bites taken out of the flesh. "THOSE LITTLE SHITS!" Gorden flipped the plate off the table, the meat falling at the feet of Michael Jackson. He stormed back to the kitchen. He bust through the double doors. "WHY IS THE LAMB RAW?" "Sir, the stove is broken." "SiR tHe stOvE iS BRoKen. WHY DID YOU SEND IT OUT RAW" he clapped his hands between each word, emphasizing his anger issues. "Y-you told us to." "Fine. Fine." He rubbed his wrinkled-ass forehead. "Just get it out."

It was now closing time at the restaurant. The cooks hung up their aprons, the guests wiped the last bits of roasted Cardi B from their faces, and Gorden was already halfway home, speeding down the freeway and cursing the names of those who had failed him tonight. And also questioning the remarkable resemblance between Michael Jackson and that little bitch who ate three bites of raw lamb before realizing it wasn't cooked, or seasoned for that matter. He soon was in the driveway to his massive mansion, complete with a stone wall and bubbling fountain of fucks he gives.

Later that night, Gorden was lying in bed, rewatching watching episodes of Iron Chef. The skill these cooks possessed could never match up to his own chefs, the fuck waffles they were. Ggggrruuuuufuckggguuug. Gorden's stomach let out a loud growl of hunger. He peered over at the clock. 10:57 pm. Not to late for a little snack. He got up and went downstairs to the kitchen fridge and looked inside. The only thing that was prepared was a slice of lamb leftover from the restaurant. He got a fork and went back upstairs to bed. As he sat down on his bed to open the container of lamb, the room because quiet. His eyes widened. His fists clenched. The lamb had no sauce. "Wha- where" He felt his blood begin to boil. "The- wha" His fork fell to the floor. "WHERE'S THE LAMB SAUUCCCCE!?"? The container of dry lamb was thrown to the floor and Gorden ran to the window. He opened it up and yeeted himself three stories down to the earth, cursing the lamb as he fell. He hit the ground with a angry British thud, his head spinning. All he saw before he blacked out was a vision of the lamb sauce, in all of its moistness and flavor, and the only place it could ever be found: Area 51.