Pokémon I have cooked and eaten

If you have ever made the dreadful mistake of paying attention to my Twitter feed, which you should be able to see in the sidebar on the right side of my main page, you may have seen instructions for cooking and eating several Pokémon. These are my submissions to a podcast I listen to, I Chews You, where the hosts compete each week to come up with the most appetising and creative recipes for cooking a predetermined species of Pokémon (because I think we all know deep down that, just as Pokémon are smarter and more powerful than real animals, they also taste better). I’m normally not really a podcast person at all – it’s just not a format I particularly enjoy – but Pokémon and food represent a… very specific combination of my interests that don’t normally intersect. I Chews You is nothing intense or super-analytical, just good relaxing fun and generally pretty zany: four friends chatting about Pokémon and food, $#!t-talking each other and, for some reason that I honestly think even they have forgotten, discussing the pros and cons of La Croix sparkling water.

Anyway, I thought it would be nice to have all my recipes in one place, where they might provide some passing amusement to any of my readers who haven’t come across them before. If you enjoy these, maybe give I Chews You a listen, and if your own creative juices are stimulated, you can always send in your own recipes (on Twitter to @ichewspod or by e-mail to ichewspod@gmail.com) for their Wailord’s Mail Hoard segment. I usually submit something each week, and it’d be nice to hear someone from my own audience join in now and again.

So, let’s get cooking:


GligarLugiaPlusle & MinunLudicolo
ClaydolWhiscashSpindaSeason 3 Finale Drinks


Two things about Delibird: 1) it’s an Ice-type, and that means a long, slow roast is in order to avoid burning the delicate meat, and 2) it’s a FAT bird, so it’ll cook more like a goose than a chicken. Trim as much excess fat as possible before cooking, and regularly drain the fat that renders out during the roasting process, but don’t throw it away! Save it for roasting or frying other dishes (beer-battered Arrokuda pan-fried in rich Delibird fat… mmmmmmm…). To get some Christmas-y flavours in there, I suggest preparing our Delibird with a spice rub of dark Dutch-process cocoa powder and ground cloves, nutmeg and allspice. Stuff the bird with a mixture of chopped raisins, apples and cranberries with a little lemon and orange zest, then roast at a low temperature for four hours. Delibird’s tail is extremely high in fat and should be prepared separately – slice it into inch-thick sections and sear with no extra cooking fat, the way you would a wagyu steak. Again for the Christmas theme, I recommend a mint sauce made from chopped fresh mint leaves with a little sugar and vinegar.


Here’s what I think about Bellossom. On the basis of Oddish, I think Bellossom’s body is essentially a tuber; because of the hula aesthetic, I suspect it’s similar to a Polynesian sweet potato. Thus, I propose a tropical dessert variant of the classic loaded potato.
Strip your Bellossom’s leaves and flowers (but don’t throw them away), then wrap the whole body in foil and bake until soft (probably at least an hour). Slit the Bellossom open, scoop out its starchy flesh, transfer it to a bowl, and mash it.
Combine the Bellossom mash with coconut shavings, some pieces of finely chopped mango and pineapple, some butter and a teaspoon of allspice, then stuff it all back into the hollowed out body. Liberally sprinkle with brown sugar and bake it on high for five or ten minutes.
To serve, pile on some whipped cream, sprinkle with chopped pistachios, drizzle with fresh nectar from Bellossom’s flowers, and wrap it all up in leaves from Bellossom’s skirt. Enjoy!


Time to cook and eat Xatu! Xatu is famous for its powers of pre- and retro-cognition, so we’re gonna cook a meal that will make you SEE THE FUTURE: fried Xatu brain! Crack that fragile bird skull, extract the brain and soak it overnight in salted Musharna milk.
The next day, drain and dry off the brain, then chop it into bite-sized pieces. Thoroughly coat the brain in flour seasoned with salt, pepper, and dried oregano, sage and Exeggutor leaves (or your alternate psychoactive herb of choice).
Fry the brains with finely chopped green chillies, onions, sweet corn and Morelull caps (again, you can substitute whatever psychoactive mushrooms are available in your area). Double check that you don’t have any work shifts in the next 24 hours, put on some soothing music and mood lighting, and get ready to become one with dreams, time and the cosmos!


Cleffa’s like… like a big chocolate-dipped space marshmallow. I think the way to go with Cleffa is to stuff it with ice cream (mixed from Miltank milk, fresh Payapa berries and a pinch of stardust under a full moon) and sear the outside to make a baked Alaska.


(This was actually the Houndour episode, but I didn’t have any good Houndour ideas and Kabuto came up in an unrelated Twitter conversation with the hosts)

Horseshoe crabs are not very meaty and their flesh apparently contains the same neurotoxin as pufferfish, but people in southeast Asia do eat horseshoe crab roe. More importantly, that blue blood contains chemicals with useful medicinal properties that couldn’t be produced artificially until very recently. Kabuto blood is probably downright magical; for all we know it could make you become immune to all disease and live for 300 years.
So, slice open your Kabuto, extract the roe, then drain the blood. Use the blood to make a sauce – I imagine it having a strong coppery tang, so balance that with some cream and a bit of sugar, flavour with onion, garlic, ginger and a hint of cinnamon, then reduce and thicken.
As for the roe, just fry it gently in butter, season with salt and pepper, then serve it in the empty Kabuto shell with fried rice, peas, carrots, chives, and a drizzle of the Kabuto blood sauce (bottle the rest for use with other dishes).

Prepare this dish for birthdays, career changes, midlife crises, retirement, or any other time you just kinda feel old.


I dunno if you want to cook Shuckle, but it’s… almost canon that you can make booze by stuffing berries into its shell and waiting for the juice to ferment. If only Pokémon didn’t have to keep that pesky kid-friendly rating, Shuckle wine would definitely be a thing.


The way you cook a Tyranitar is pretty straightforward; you hack it into thick steaks with a machete, season with salt and pepper, smoke them for an hour with old-growth Ilex Forest oak, then briefly sear them on both sides. Rare or blue; anything else is frankly a crime.
The meat has a powerful “earthy” flavour that comes from eating rocks and soil for over a hundred years as a Larvitar, which you can complement with a mushroom or miso ginger sauce.
Note that, as a Dark-type, the more chaos and destruction Tyranitar causes, the healthier it will be and the better its meat will taste. For best results, allow it to demolish a few small towns before setting up an ambush with high-level Fighting Pokémon, grenades, heavy anti-tank rockets, or a small nuke.


As I think we all know deep down, Pichu is really just a garnish to Pikachu… so this week, I propose we serve Pichu four ways as an accompaniment to I Chews You’s four classic Pikachu dishes.
To go alongside Ian’s coffee-marinated Pikachu, we can chop our Pichu into bite-sized pieces, drench in a batter liberally seasoned with cocoa powder, then fry and serve with rice and a sesame sauce.
For Evan’s Roman-style honey-roasted Pikachu, we can mince our Pichu and mix it with breadcrumbs, orange zest, black pepper, garlic and just a tiny drop of battery acid, then use that to stuff our Pikachu before roasting.
Accompanying Ben’s Pikachu mochi, we can render our Pichu’s fat and combine it with lemon or orange zest, a sweet white dessert wine and a decent helping of cinnamon to create a rich, decadent sauce.
Finally, to top Jeremy’s lemon Pikachu parfait… I Chews You logic clearly dictates that Pichu’s ears are made of black liquorice, so let’s turn that lemon parfait into a lemon-and-liquorice swirl, with a bit of grated liquorice on top.


Real scorpions are small enough to fry whole and are supposed to have a sort of nutty/salty flavour, but I reckon for Gligar it makes more sense to roast. Slice your Gligar down the middle and open it up, like butterflying a chicken.
Remove the large front claws and tail to cook separately. Slather the body with olive oil and apply a rub of garlic powder, cumin, cayenne pepper, paprika and thyme. Fold the wing membranes back over the exposed meat of the body cavity, to form a crispy “skin” during cooking.
Roast for an hour, then turn up the heat and broil for a few minutes to char the exoskeleton. Meanwhile, extract the venom from the tail and set it aside (use it sparingly to give a numbing zing to cocktails, sauces, etc, or use two full Gligars’ worth to murder an enemy).
Stuff the claws and tail with a mixture of breadcrumbs, dried apricots and hazelnuts, with a little orange zest and parsley. Use egg or milk to coat them with more breadcrumbs, lightly seasoned with salt and pepper, then fry them whole.

Lugia (season 2 finale)

The Random Number God has assigned to me my greatest challenge yet: my contribution to the #WumboMailHoard for I Chews You’s great festival of hedonism is to be none other than the ancient and holy master of the Whirl Islands, Lugia.
Obviously you can’t exactly buy Lugia fillet at your local supermarket, so the first thing you’ll need is a small fleet of whaling ships with grenade-tipped harpoons to bring the damn thing down. An epic Pokémon requires an epic cooking method, so (assuming you survived step 1) we’re going to cut down a silver fir, strip the branches, and use the trunk to spit-roast our Lugia whole over a massive bonfire for, like, 12 hours. You might have to rig a crane or something to turn the spit; apply basting sauce with a paint roller, y’know, get creative.
Stuff the body cavity with like a dozen whole lemons (at this scale, don’t even bother zesting them), an entire branch of rosemary, about the same amount of bay leaves (from, if possible, an actual Bayleef), a couple of diced Parasect shrooms and all the garlic you have.
For basting, use about four litres of Sinnohan Cherubi wine (make sure to get the good stuff, even if it bankrupts you; you can’t sully a Lugia with everyday cooking wine) and half as much Miltank butter, seasoned with paprika, oregano, onion powder, chilli flakes and garlic.
(Yes, I already told you to use all the garlic you have – get more. You’re cooking a Lugia, this is no time to be thrifty)
Once it’s been on the spit all day and the juices are running clear, you can start carving bits off with a two-man saw, or better, an Aegislash.
The best meat on a Lugia is in the belly and tail, where all the fat is – enjoy a slice with a rich balsamic sauce or a bright salsa verde, alongside a can of cran-raspberry LaCroix.
Oh, and remember to invite, like, 30 friends – partly to share your meal, but also to help defend you from the Kimono Girls who will absolutely hunt you down for what you’ve done.

Plusle and Minun

(from this bonus episode produced by some other fans)

Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do: Plusle & Minun cocktail. This is how they used to do it at this hole-in-the-wall dive bar in Mauville City that got shut down for health code violations back in ’09. First, get yourself two cocktail shakers (ideally copper, but stainless steel will do). In the first, mix grenadine, cranberry juice, raspberry vodka and a little Campari; in the second, blue curaçao, pineapple juice, blueberries and white rum. Now comes the tricky part: get your Plusle to zap the first cocktail shaker at full power for at least 10 seconds, and have your Minun do the same to the second one. Then, using rubber gloves, pour both drinks into a single glass. If you’ve done it right, the red drink will have picked up Plusle’s positive charge and the blue one Minun’s negative charge, and you’ll get a vivid lava lamp effect inside the glass (is this how science works? absolutely not, this is Pokémon, fµ¢£ you). Drink it all before the charges equalise, and you’ll have a static tingle for hours!


So the great thing about Ludicolo is it has a pineapple on its head. For many of us, that would be enough, but for I Chews You, the podcast about cooking and eating Pokémon, we need to go full Carmen Miranda on this bitch – which means it’s time to try some creative grafting.
Step 1: obtain cuttings or buds of several tropical fruit plants – banana, mango, dragonfruit, lychee, whatever you can get your hands on. If you can, get Tropius plantains or just a whole live Bounsweet or Cherubi.
Step 2: anaesthetise your Ludicolo (chemically or psychically).
Step 3: find the stem where the pineapple joins Ludicolo’s head and make several V-shaped incisions around its circumference, one for each of your cuttings.
Step 4: Take each cutting and push the base of the stem under the skin of Ludicolo’s pineapple stem.
Step 5: Apply disinfectant and antibacterial cream, then bandage everything tightly.
Step 6: ???
Step 7: Profit! Your Ludicolo can now grow entire fruit salads on its head, which you can pick every week! Dice the fruit and serve with whipped cream infused with vanilla.
And of course, pair with a can of fine coconut LaCroix.


So, uh… not a lot of good meat on a Chimecho, as it turns out – the head’s hollow, the tail’s just a thin strip about 40 cm long. We’re going to work with the strip. The great thing is that Chimecho tails are naturally a good thickness for making jerky.
There’s this monastery halfway up Mount Pyre that makes traditional Chimecho jerky, and I dunno if it’s good, but it’s… very chewy. You get this tremendous sense of achievement from finishing a piece, and Chimecho has a sort of peppermint flavour that’s weirdly addictive.
To start, get about 50 Chimecho tails. Skin ’em, trim off the fat, cover ’em in salt. Marinate them for a day or two in a mixture of Sitrus Berry juice, chopped mint leaves, maple syrup, garlic, onion powder, black pepper, chilli flakes and ginger paste.
Stick the strips in a dehydrator for 8 hours (add liquid smoke to the marinade if you’re going to do this), or hang them on a line next to a smokey fire for 24. Chew a strip of Chimecho jerky on a long hike, and wash it down with the crisp floral notes of a hibiscus LaCroix.


Am I too late for this week? Swellow’s… well, Swellow’s a bird; the sky is (literally) the limit. You can roast it with a honey glaze; you can crumb and fry it; you can grill it with a traditional Hoennese spice rub; you can mince it for pies or dumplings.
The best way to cook a Swellow? I think we should go for a roulade. Pound the breast flat, roll it up with a Chesto berry and herb stuffing, wrap it tightly in rashers of maple-cured Whismur bacon, then roast it for an hour and a half.
Then slather it all in a Cheri berry sauce – I imagine Cheri berries tasting sweet and spicy, like a mixture of a real cherry and a medium-heat chilli. Garnish with fresh parsley and serve with roasted vegetables, or any Pokémon from the Oddish line.

oh, damn, almost forgot: pair this dish with the complex, full-bodied sweetness of a peach-pear LaCroix.


…well, I…
…I mean, you…
…look, it…
…look, you can’t fµ¢£ing cook a Registeel, okay

but IF YOU DID, first you would rip out its innards and smash them to pieces with a titanium mallet.  Season its metal guts with powdered gold, crushed glass, sulphuric acid and a dash of mercury, blend with a pile of iron nails, then stuff it all back in the body cavity.
Roast your Registeel whole in the open magma chamber of an active volcano for 300 years, or until golden brown, and serve with a garnish of fresh, crispy obsidian flakes.
And of course, pair this dish with the simple, fresh taste of a can of “pure” La Croix.

(Warning: this dish will definitely kill you)


Beldum is another tricky one, but it does have one important culinary advantage over Registeel: it has a brain and a big, juicy, succulent eye. Also, instead of blood, it has… magnetism? That’s just a confusing Pokédex entry.
Anyway this is how you make Beldum’s eye soup the old Hoennese way. Get, like, five or six Beldum. Separate the heads from the bodies; traditionally this is done with a meteoric iron cleaver, but you may find it easier to use an industrial laser cutter.
The bodies are no good for eating, but the metal has applications in forging magical weapons, occult artefacts, cybernetic implants and spaceship parts, so keep it for trade with your local magi-tech practitioner.
Pluck the eyes and scoop out the brains from all those Beldum heads, but don’t throw the heads away. Soak the brains in water overnight, then mash them and season them with salt, paprika, cumin, turmeric and a little powdered titanium.
Sauté the brains in butter with some crushed garlic and ginger until golden. Transfer to a pot of Torchic stock, throw in some chopped Payapa, Babiri and Liechi berries for an intoxicating mix of sweet, sour and spicy flavours, then bring it all to a boil.
Let the soup simmer for twenty minutes before adding the eyeballs, then give it another five minutes. Finally, serve the soup in the hollowed-out Beldum heads (make sure everyone gets an eyeball!) You could probably serve other soups in these too; it’s just not as poetic.
The brains and eyes make this a very rich soup, so make sure your dinner guests can refresh themselves with a tall, cold glass of grapefruit Lacroix!


So you want an old shrimp recipe, huh? Um. That is, an old-shrimp recipe, not an old shrimp-recipe. But we could make it both! You can’t do generation III without trying Hoennese fossil paella: a classic of the region.
Rice, garlic, onion, turmeric, paprika, Nomel berry zest, Cheri berries, pickled Lileep and Cradily fronds (use both for the colour contrast), slices of lemon-and-herb-marinated Relicanth fillet, and of course our star ingredient, Anorith, all fried in a single pan, then cooked with a savoury broth of Torchic stock and Pomeg berry wine.
A traditionalist would say you should just throw in a couple of whole Anorith, big juicy eyes and all, with no preparation before they hit the pan.  If you’ve had enough eyeballs after my Beldum recipe, then crack open your Anorith’s shell, extract the meat (but leave the claws and tail whole) and potentially marinate it with honey, garlic and soy sauce before you cook everything.
As always, make sure you pair the piquant, smoky and sour flavours of this dish with just the right drink: a light, refreshing and subtle coconut LaCroix.


So, Nuzleaf. Nuzleaf’s like a… like a big turnip. Like a real starchy boi. Boil ’em, mash ’em, stick ’em in a stew. The best way to cook a Nuzleaf in my opinion is to chop it into cubes and then slow-roast them in Makuhita fat until they’re golden and crispy.
You can also work in the rest of the evolutionary line. Seedot is an acorn, and apparently you *can* cook with acorns if you boil them half a dozen times to remove the tannins that make them bitter. After that, just chop your Seedot up and roast it along with your Nuzleaf.
Finely chopped Shiftry leaves sprinkled over the Nuzleaf cubes add a little blustery, minty flavour. This dish is a great addition to any meat-and-three-veg ensemble, or on its own. Your LaCroix pairing this week is a tart and tangy passionfruit – enjoy!


Well, it was inevitable that Wailord’s Mail Hoard would one day turn against its creator. Hoenn is one of the Japanese regions, so historically they probably did once hunt and eat Wailmer and Wailord – unofficially, maybe they still do!
Are we worried about the ethical ramifications of eating ancient, majestic creatures of the ocean, with intelligence comparable to humans, who may one day be driven to extinction by overhunting? Of course not; this is I Chews You. This is just another day in the test kitchen!
So, Wailord is 14.5 m long, about the size of a right whale, but tips the scales at a comparatively petite 400 kg. An adult right whale weighs over 40 tons. There’s a reason the Pokédex calls this thing “the Float Whale Pokémon” – its flesh is spongy, airy and… marshmallowy.

That means it’s time for…
(drumroll, please)
Wailord’s whale s’mores!

Carve some big steaks out of Wailord’s belly, then chop them into bite-sized chunks. Marinate these for a couple of hours with soy sauce, honey, garlic, ginger and white miso. Then skewer the chunks and roast them over an open fire until the fat starts to get melty and gooey.
Chocolate and graham crackers famously don’t go with whale meat, so instead we’ll sandwich our Wailord chunks between squares of toasted whole wheat flatbread, with fried shallots, slivers of carrot, cucumber and daikon radish and a generous helping of garlic-herb butter.
Whaling is thirsty work, so don’t forget to pair your Wailord’s whale s’mores with the traditional ice-cold can of La Croix – a vintage lime, for freshness and zing.


Okay I’m gonna be early this week; I’m getting this recipe done fast.
…okay maybe not Ninjask fast, but fast-ish.

There’s actually a lot of real-world recipes for cooking cicadas; they’re high in protein and are supposed to have a  delicious “nutty” flavour.
Now, what they do in Rustboro City is they make this sauce with Kewpie mayonnaise, Tamato berries, Nomel berries, local brandy, and I dunno, probably some other $#!t too, then they slather it on and just eat the whole Ninjask raw with some lettuce like a fµ¢£in’ shrimp cocktail.
Stay away from that $#!t. That $#!t’s nasty.
What you actually want to do is pick off the wings and legs, then pan-fry ’em whole with some chopped Shroomish, garlic, ginger, soy sauce, Roselia honey, Cheri berry paste and a little rice wine. Simple flavours, simple process.
Also check out the chocolate-covered cicadas, cicada cookies and (I swear I am not making this up) cicada pizza at this link, because honestly the things people do with real cicadas are as creative as anything I can think of to do with Ninjask.
Oh, almost forgot the La Croix pairing – this week, you’ll be washing down your delicious crunchy fried Ninjask with the earthy taste of “coffea exotica.” Enjoy!


Walrein’s one of my favourite Pokémon of gen III; it’s a great Ice-type tank, it has a fantastic moustache, and it can feed your family for months if you pickle its blubber.

You heard me.

Cut your Walrein’s blubber into cubes, leaving the skin on. Wash and boil the cubes, then keep them in a barrel of sour whey for, like, two months. If you want, you can add flavourings or spices – toss some quartered Oran or Leppa berries in your pickle barrel, maybe some cumin.

After a couple of months, you can just eat chunks of Walrein blubber on its own, right out of the barrel, as a chewy snack. It’s even better, though, if you batter and deep-fry it in Delibird fat, and serve with a honey-soy dipping sauce.  This is a rich, fatty and sour dish that needs a bright, sweet beverage pairing, so I recommend orange Fanta.

Just kidding, you’re drinking apricot La Croix.

Enjoy your meal!


I don’t know about you, but I think the Pokémon that are already food are some of the most difficult. Because you don’t want to just do the obvious thing, right? Sure, you could just eat the fruit from Tropius’ neck, but where’s the joy? The spark? The panache?

Well, I’m here to tell you that eating Tropius’ fruit is a scam. According to the Pokédex, Tropius grows the same fruits that it eats, so any fruit that it produces, you could just as easily collect for yourself! It thinks it can outsmart us by feeding our own fruit back to us!  I won’t stand for this! Tropius has tried to cheat us, so animal welfare be damned; we’re going to have the most delicious revenge of all: Tropius pâté de foie gras!

Like migratory birds, Tropius can rapidly pack extra fat into its liver to prepare for long-haul flights.  To prepare our Tropius, we’re going to start by making a nutritious boiled mash of barley, lard and some of the rarest berries in the Pokémon world, with some of the most complex and delicious flavours: Lansat and Starf Berries.  Stick a funnel down Tropius’ throat and force-feed it this mash every day for three weeks, starting at 15 kg a day and gradually increasing to 30. Its fruit and its liver will both swell and become incredibly rich. Tropius fruit prepared this way is a treat in its own right, as it blends together the flavours of the berries in the mash, and is delicious on its own or as a component in a sauce or glaze. But the main event is the liver.

When the force-feeding process is over, butcher your Tropius and find the liver.  Start the pâté by chopping the liver into bite-sized pieces and seasoning it with salt, black pepper, dried Tropius leaves, Sitrus Berry zest and a little paprika. Fry some shallots and garlic in oil, then add the liver and give it a good 5 minutes, tossing the pieces regularly.  Blitz everything in a food processor, return it to the pan and deglaze with fine Sinnohan Cherubi brandy. Then add some Miltank cream and a tiny bit of sugar, simmer for a bit and pour it back into the food processor, along with some butter. Blend until smooth and creamy.  If you plan to store the pâté for a while, mix up a Tropius fruit jelly and pour a thin layer over the top to seal it.

This pâté is indescribably rich, melts in your mouth, and has a complex mixture of fruity and savoury flavours. Serve it on crackers or toasted sourdough.  Some people say you should never serve Tropius pâté with a liqueur, only with Cherubi wine. Screw them; I like it with Shiftry absinthe. But failing that, you should use the fanciest La Croix flavour on the market – I refer, of course, to the new Cubana mojito flavour.

(Note: force-feeding is now illegal in Unova and Hoenn because of its heinous cruelty, but you *can* still do it in Sinnoh!)


It’s theoretically possible to cook a gourmet Wingull dish, something you’d see in a nice restaurant, but I don’t think that’s really in the spirit of Wingull. Wingull is based on a seagull, and seagulls are (and this is true) the worst bird. For the real Wingull experience, you need some greasy, slightly burnt, funky-smelling, recklessly unhealthy Slateport City street food.

First, pluck your Wingull and remove any shotgun pellets. If there’s no shot, your supplier probably just found a dead one lying on the beach.  That’s okay, you can probably still use it – just, like, dunk it in boiling water or something, idk.

When you butcher it, save the heart, liver and gizzard, which you can flash-fry with garlic and onions. Set the bones aside for making soup. If you’re cooking a Wingull, you’re probably cooking on a budget, so don’t throw anything away.

Chop up the meat into bite-sized pieces and grill it on skewers. The local vendors all use the same mystery spice rub for this. They won’t tell me what’s in it, but it smells of overripe fruit and tobacco smoke.  Grill some flatbread, like a pita or something, with a little bit of oil. Then just roll the meat up in that, along with some fried onions, fried mushrooms, fried zucchini, fried artichoke… basically you want to get some veggies in there without accidentally making it healthy.  Slather on some mustard or yoghurt (in Dewford Town they serve this with ketchup, but they’re a bunch of inbred freaks, so what do they know?) and serve with the least classy of all La Croix flavours: lime.


so, if you go to Fallarbor Town in the tourist season and see shops selling jars of this weird sparkly golden spice called “sun dust” or “solar spice” or “astral pepper” or any of half a dozen other brand names… that’s ground-up Solrock spikes.

Well, usually it is. Sometimes it’s finely-grated hard cheese mixed with yellow glitter. Reputable stores will always offer you a taste before you buy it.

Mature Solrock shed their spikes just after a solar maximum, which happens about once every eleven years, so the real stuff is hella expensive. But it tastes like the warmth of the sun on your face and childhood memories of summer – spicy and sweet and rich and savoury all at once, and only slightly hallucinogenic. In Fallarbor Town they break it out for special occasions, when they barbeque a whole Numel on a spit. The spice rub uses just half a teaspoon of Solrock dust, along with garlic powder, dried Cheri berries and Figy berries, a drop of numbing Seviper venom, smoky dried Nuzleaf leaves and plenty of salt; normally the basting sauce uses honey, soy sauce and Pomeg berry wine. Traditionally you’re only supposed to drink pure spring water from Meteor Falls with this dish, but… this is I Chews You; we can cheat a little bit and embrace the sun with a nice cold can of piña fraise (pineapple and strawberry) La Croix. Enjoy!


Lileep and Cradily are based on crinoid sea lilies, which are *clearly*, *obviously* plants, but somehow technically animals (they’re related to starfish and sea urchins). This makes Lileep really flexible for cooking, because it’s a vegetable that’s made of meat! The pink, cucumber-like fronds can be pickled with rice vinegar, soy sauce, sugar and black sesame (those are a key ingredient in the Hoennese fossil paella I made for the Anorith episode). The squishy purple outer body gets shredded, pulped and reconstituted into flat sheets. Those sheets are dried and toasted, and that’s how you get the distinctive salty-but-sweet purple nori you see in Hoennese sushi restaurants. Finally, Lileep doesn’t really have a skeleton or many internal organs, so pretty much everything in the “head” is good meat. You can just cut it into strips and let it sit with a basic garlic, ginger and Lum berry marinade before briefly searing it on a high heat. Then bring everything together: cover a sheet of Lileep nori in sticky rice, lay strips of Lileep meat and pickled fronds across the middle, add some pickled ginger and a tiny bit of super-spicy Spelon berry paste, then roll it all up and slice into sushi rounds. The truly discerning, of course, will pair such a light and healthy seafood dish only with a tall glass of bubbly, subtly sour lemon La Croix.


It can hardly have escaped the notice of the ICY crew that Makuhita looks exactly like a walking barbeque pork bun, so it should come as no surprise that there is a tradition, in both southern Hoenn and Alola, of decorating steamed buns to look like Makuhita faces. You can find these with a range of fillings – spicy barbeque Taillow, soy-ginger Corphish, sweet Mago berry paste, and in Alola, smoked Toxapex with caramelised onions and vinegar. BUT you never actually see them with a Makuhita filling. I guess making a bun that looks like a Pokémon and then stuffing it with that same Pokémon’s meat would be “weird” or “creepy” or something. Bunch of killjoys. But you know what they *do* make from Makuhita? Sausage. Makuhita is the “Guts Pokémon.” It has the Guts ability. This is a Pokémon with some high-quality guts: flexible, durable, with a really satisfying “snap” when you bite into them. And Makuhita’s high-energy sumo wrestler diet gives their meat a fatty and delicious wagyu-like quality; it really melts in your mouth. Chop up the meat, put it through a grinder, and mix in some olive oil, garlic, black pepper, salt, sugar, dried Breloom caps and a sharp cheese (in Hoenn you should go with Numel cheddar, if you can handle its distinctive fiery kick). Blend it all together in an electric mixer, with enough Pomeg berry wine to make everything sticky. Stuff the meat into a thoroughly cleaned and salted Makuhita intestine, pinch and tie off the individual sausages, then hang it all out to dry for a few hours. Then all you have to do is grill ’em and serve with some fried onions, your favourite barbeque sauce, and a refreshing can of – what else? – bold and tangy grapefruit La Croix.


[Written after the Feebas episode]
oh my god I didn’t have time to come up with a recipe this week because I had to travel for a friend’s wedding but the terrible “sea bass” jokes did it for me
John Hammond’s Chilean sea bass from Jurassic Park – a dish so popular it nearly drove the fish to extinction
All we have to do to recreate its breakout success is cook Feebas with as many different dinosaur Pokémon as possible! Pan-seared Feebas, with a Tropius fruit sauce, chopped Bayleef fronds, dried Grovyle leaves, Breloom caps sautéed with garlic, slivers of spicy Cranidos jerky and a sprinkle of crushed Aurorus crystals, all served on a Bastiodon shield platter. Mmm-mmm!
oh, and uh, I guess like a limoncello La Croix, maybe? Y’know, a little bit citrus-y, kinda classy, complex aftertaste.


Ah, Luvdisc, the Hoenn region’s timeless symbol of romantic love. As we all know, love can make you crazy, and Luvdisc doesn’t just inspire chocolate heart candies: that’s why today it is my pleasure to bring you the lunatic fever dream that is Luvdisc Rangoon. Shred some Luvdisc meat, then blend it with cream cheese, chopped Farfetch’d stalks, garlic powder and Worcestershire sauce. Roll the mixture into balls, fold up each one inside a wonton wrapper, and deep-fry them. Then, serve with sweet chilli sauce while they’re hot and crispy. This is not a traditional Hoennese dish. I don’t think anyone in Hoenn even knows what Luvdisc Rangoon is. Because there’s no such thing as “authentic” Luvdisc Rangoon, chefs can add almost anything to the filling, usually to make it more “tropical,” more “romantic,” or both – often at the expense of all common sense and human decency. The cream cheese can be sweetened with Roselia honey, and flavoured with berries or even chocolate. You might see coconut shavings in place of the Farfetch’d stalk, as well as finely chopped Pinap or Pomeg berries. You can also get Luvdisc Rangoon with chopped almonds, saffron, spicy Cheri berry paste, chopped olives – or, if your chef is truly deranged, all of the above. I recommend standing by with a watermelon La Croix in case you need to quickly wash away the culinary assault.


The great thing about cooking and eating Dragon-types like Shelgon is they’re full of sacred life energy, the holy essence of the living world itself. Gets you high as a kite the first time, let me tell you! The *other* great thing about Shelgon is you can literally just roast it whole in the shell. Dragon-types resist Fire, so you might need to turn up the heat a bit with some Torkoal coals or a Solrock oven or something, but basically you’re just roasting it for a couple of hours. The problem is you can’t actually *eat* the shell because it’s over an inch thick and has a texture more or less reminiscent of bone, covered in concrete. Obviously you can’t baste or glaze the outside, so to get some really nice flavours going, you gotta stuff the bastard thing. There’s a kind of bittersweet berry they have in Sinnoh, the Haban berry, that reacts with Dragon-type energies to enhance its flavour. What we’re gonna do is get like 8 of these, stuff the *berries* individually, then *double stuff* the Shelgon *with* the stuffed berries. Blend some cream cheese, Nomel berry zest, some Altaria feathers (which are, of course, made of cotton candy) and a little cinnamon. Cut the Haban berries open, scoop out some of the goop, then stuff ’em with the cream cheese mix. Pack Shelgon’s body cavity with stuffed berries, chopped red onions, garlic, breadcrumbs, the remaining Haban berry goop and a little oil. Then you just spit-roast it over an open fire for maybe 3 hours, crack the shell off with a jackhammer or something, and the meat should be falling right off the bone! Your La Croix pairing for this week is the lively and complex cerise limón (cherry and lime) flavour. Enjoy!


so if you google “cooking camel,” one of the results on the first page is a video titled “psycho cooks a whole camel & stabs it with a rose.” Whatever you’re imagining right now is probably better than the actual video and you shouldn’t watch it, but… it does remind me of this one obscure Central Hoennese recipe you should try for this episode: Roselia-stuffed Camerupt. Basically you’re chucking a whole Camerupt in a huge smoker for a few hours, after basting it with Roselia honey, rosewater, soy sauce, garlic and ginger. The stuffing uses 3 or 4 Roselia. Chop up the foliage, boil and mash the tuber-like body, then mix that up together with some dried Oddish leaves and a lot of garlic powder and paprika. As for the roses, coat them with flour, dried Cheri berry powder, cinnamon and black pepper. Deep fry them whole, then just shove ’em in with the rest of the Roselia stuffing. Now, the danger with cooking and eating Camerupt is that it might explode, covering you with molten lava. If you get covered in molten lava, you’re gonna have a bad time. To keep this from happening, you have to slowly and carefully drain the lava from its volcano humps before you start cooking. I recommend hitting them with a powerful Ice Beam to cool them down and reduce the pressure a little, then opening a vein with a diamond-tipped drill. Once that’s done, you can hollow out the humps and recycle them as serving bowls! And just on the off chance you *do* get drenched in molten lava, make sure you have a cooling beverage at the ready – such as a nice chilled berry La Croix.


Wynaut’s… uh…

well, Wynaut’s just, um…

…it’s just made of bubblegum, isn’t it? It’s just… blue bubblegum with like a liquorice tail.

I know I usually write more, and I know there’s a long-standing controversy around recipes that just presuppose a Pokémon is food, but… look at it!

oh, damn, almost forgot the La Croix pairing


what flavour of La Croix goes with blue bubblegum?

it’s gotta be coconut cola, right? Has to be; what *else* could it be?


Is there any food Pokémon more versatile than Torchic? Hoenn style fried Torchic, Torchikka masala, Oran Torchic on fried rice, whole Torchic baked in Barboach clay, Torchic boiled in Swalot venom (not for the faint-hearted). But one stands above them all…

The legendary Tortailblu, or “Hoennese turducken”: a Swablu stuffed inside a Taillow stuffed inside a Torchic. This is an extravagant dish; this is a dish you make to show off. There’s, like, one super fancy restaurant in Lilycove City where you can order this à la carte, but more likely this is something you’d ask a catering company to make for a fancy party – or do it yourself.

Step 1: pluck and debone all three birds. Stuff the Swablu with Shroomish truffles and soak it for 2 hours in Sinnohan Cherubi brandy – the good $#!t from the top shelf. (The traditional recipe uses Ludicolo champagne, which is made by grafting grapevines to a Ludicolo’s head so its party magic ferments the grapes on the vine… but let’s be real, sometimes you can’t get authentic Hoennese Ludicolo champagne at your local liquor store, y’know?)
Step 2: Stuff the Swablu inside the Taillow, filling any gaps with a mixture of breadcrumbs, ground Seedot and olive oil, liberally seasoned with paprika and black pepper.
Step 3: Slather the Taillow with a herb butter made with Grovyle and Nuzleaf leaves and garlic.
Step 4: Stuff the Taillow inside the Torchic, this time filling the gaps with diced Leppa and Aspear berries and ground Chesto berries.
Step 5: Poke cloves into the skin, then roast the whole monstrosity for about 3 hours, basting with honey, lemon juice and mustard.

If you’re serving this dish, either you have something pretty big to celebrate or you’re seducing someone. Ideally you’d crack open a bottle of Verdanturf Roselia wine (2003 was an excellent year), but failing that, there’s always passionfruit La Croix.


So, you want to cook the shapeless void? To gaze long into the abyss, as it gazes also into you, and to say with the conviction of one who knows the doom that lies beyond the veil: “that looks so fµ¢£in’ tasty” Only one dish can satisfy such grim, heretical desire: Duskull flambé.

First, prepare your ritual circle, using white chalk on a black surface to mark runes of gluttony and hedonism, as detailed in the Pokénomicon. Under a full moon, slice open your Duskull’s shroud with a sacrificial dagger. Put the mask aside for later, Duskull’s innards are made of shadows and death, but you can render them solid and edible by coating each piece in flour seasoned with dried goat’s blood, powdered black sesame, and the rind of the Kasib berry, which can force Ghost Pokémon into the physical world. The shroud is real, but its texture is leathery and it will need to be tenderised before you can cook it; I recommend a good hammering with a meat mallet before marinating it in lime juice, soy sauce and honey for an hour or so.


Sauté the innards and the shroud with black garlic, Pumpkaboo wedges and Dhelmise fronds. Then douse the whole pan in Chandelure oil and ignite it with any Pokémon’s Will’o’Wisp attack (ordinary fire will become cold and cursed upon direct contact with these ingredients). As the flames blaze, offer Duskull’s mask as a sacrifice to the Endless Void by placing it in a black velvet bag and crushing it with your left boot. That isn’t part of the dish, but if you don’t do it, you may die in mysterious circumstances 6 days, 6 hours and 6 minutes later. As soon as the flames die down, pour in some cream and stir vigorously until you get a rich sauce that glows with otherworldly blue light. Give thanks to the darkness, break the ritual circle, and serve with a bright, lively tangerine La Croix, to anchor your soul to this world.

Beware – most Pokémon you cook and eat will only “come back for revenge” in a metaphorical sense, if you use too much spice. Duskull will eventually reconstitute itself in the spirit world and pursue you for the rest of your life. Totally worth it though.


The wonderful thing about Claydol is that is head is clearly a tajine. I’m not saying if you cut off its head and open it up, you’ll literally find a delicious spicy stew inside, but you *will* get a fantastic earthenware pot. The conical shape of a tajine lid – or a Claydol head – is designed to help retain and circulate moisture for slowly cooking meat, so you end up with a nice juicy stew. This is perfect for a tough, gamey meat like Sandshrew that needs to cook for a long time and dries out easily. Combine that with some other flavourful desert ingredients: the fragrant flowers and sweet sap of Cacnea (or even a generous glug of Cacturne tequila for a boozy version), crunchy Trapinch shells, olive oil, plenty of chickpeas, tomatoes, butternut squash, Pomeg berries, and of course, don’t forget the spices: turmeric, ginger, cumin; international versions of this dish can use ground Maractus seeds, for their lively smoky-but-sweet flavour. Sweeten with a little Roselia honey, add plenty of water or Torchic stock, then just turn up the heat and leave it to stew. And what could go better with this taste of the desert than a refreshing can of múre pepino (cucumber & blackberry) La Croix?


What are we cooking, Whiscash? Whiscash are native to hot, dry northwest Hoenn, where traditional nomadic communities often have to travel long distances between sources of fresh water. You need to take a lot of food for treks like that – but fish goes bad real fast. What do? Answer: ferment it.

So the first thing you gotta do is drink, like, a whole glass of Cacturne tequila. That isn’t actually part of the recipe, it’s just really good. Debone your Whiscash and throw out the digestive tract, but keep all the other internal organs. It’s all going to turn into a disgusting brown slurry if you do it right anyway, and there’s important nutrients in the liver, heart and spleen (folklore has it that if you eat a lot of this stuff, you pick up some of Whiscash’s ability to sense earthquakes before they happen). Pack the meat and innards into jars (traditionally glazed ceramic – use a Claydol head if you’ve got one). Add some mashed Aspear, Pinap and Passho berries; this combination is intensely sour, but also quite fragrant, which you’ll need to offset the fermenting catfish. You’ll also need a *lot* of salt – roughly a 1:3 ratio by weight of salt to Whiscash. Then just load the jars up on a pack Numel or something, and set off wherever it is you’re going! Make sure the jars are covered securely, but open them every day to stir the mixture. After a good 3-4 weeks, the Whiscash guts will have broken down into a fairly uniform paste, which you can spread liberally over your carb of choice. It smells… pretty foul, but the complex salty and savoury taste is weirdly addictive, and it’s even better if you add some fried onions, a little cumin and oregano, and some roughly chopped Seedot. If you’re making this at home, have some more Cacturne tequila, but if you’re actually trekking across a desert, you probably shouldn’t waste water getting drunk. As such, you should instead indulge in that most traditional of north Hoennese beverages: a can of cold, sweet peach-pear La Croix.


Here’s the thing about Spinda. Every Spinda is unique. Well, maybe not *every* Spinda, but the Pokédex claims there are 4 billion different spot patterns, so… yeah, it’s pretty much every Spinda. But what does that mean if you want to *cook* Spinda?

Answer: It means that every Spinda tastes a little bit different. Spinda are the Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans of the Pokémon world. An incomplete list of documented Spinda flavours includes: vanilla, chocolate, peppermint, cardamom, cola, Oran berry, Razz berry, Nanab berry, Starf berry, Lansat berry, Snozz berry, balsamic vinegar, blue cheese, olive, fermented Whiscash, margherita pizza, roast beef, toffee apple, hot-smoked salmon, coconut milk, tomato ketchup, bird’s nest soup, Worcestershire sauce, Jägermeister, lavender, pork and apple sauce, sauerkraut, green tea, mayonnaise, horseradish, prawn cocktail, marmite, chicken-and-waffles, seaweed, sour milk, absinthe, ghost pepper, hemp, corn smut, sea salt, acorns, freshly cut grass, ozone, clay, soap, pine resin, sulphur, charcoal, human blood… and pumpkin spice. Obviously the only way to handle this is to get, like, two dozen Spinda and make a huge platter of tapas-style croquettes, meatballs and empanadas. That way, you and all your friends can try the whole range. Hopefully, everyone will find something they like! Obviously the La Croix pairing for this week is “pure” because frankly you’re going to need a palette cleanser after all that.

Season 3 Finale Drinks

Another season finale, another opulent Poké-feast that will go down in history as one of the most extravagant meals of all time! But all this delicious food is going to make us thirsty…

Obviously the drinks fridge at the I Chews You test kitchen is extremely well stocked with every flavour of La Croix known to science – but (and I know this will be a controversial statement) one cannot party on La Croix alone. We need alcomahol – and lots of it.

First, we need an aperitif, something that will complement Ben’s sides… like a Deoxys cocktail, or “Deoxtail”! Cooking a mysterious alien virus from space is obviously a dangerous proposition, but alcohol kills most viruses, so this is totally doable. Crack open the purple gusher in Deoxys’ chest and extract the thick viral syrup within. Mix this with twice the volume of a strong grain alcohol like Everclear, shake it up and let it sit for no less than 5 minutes, but no longer than 15. You want to kill enough virus to keep it from being a major biohazard, but not too much, or you’ll lose all the precious cosmic nightmare flavour! Once that’s done, mix it in a cocktail shaker with some lime La Croix, white curaçao and egg whites. Serve in martini glasses with a twist of orange, for a drink that will bring your guests face-to-face with humankind’s monumental insignificance in a vast, cold and uncaring universe! Also it tastes kind of spicy. Like it might try to kill you if only it were stronger.

To go with the appetisers: vintage Hoennese black Roselia wine. Roselia wine is made by adding Roselia petals to the grapes during crushing, and is usually sweetened with Roselia honey. It’s extremely fragrant and floral, like if an expensive perfume tasted as good as it smelled. Black Roselia wine is the rarest and most expensive, because it can only be made with flowers from a shiny Roselia. It has a deep, rich, sensual, almost chocolatey flavour profile, and an inky black colour that transports the drinker’s mind to the void.

We’re already breaking the bank with that Deoxys cocktail, let alone the black Roselia wine – so why stop now? Let’s pair the main course with a drink made from Soul Dew – the infinitely holy crystallised soul of a dead Latias or Latios! First, use a silver or platinum mallet to break open the crystalline shell of the Soul Dew. (This is technically an unforgivable blasphemy against every living Pokémon in the world: if that makes you uncomfortable, get a friend to do this part for you so it doesn’t count). Inside you’ll find a wispy, volatile fluid – collect this in some kind of vessel that can hold the blessed soul of a Dragon Pokémon. A consecrated cup or bowl made from carved Shelgon shell is probably the easiest to get. Once that’s done, crush the outer shell of the Soul Dew into a fine powder with your mallet. (To be honest, you can just snort the powder at this point, but this is I Chews You; we want to be at least a little bit classy) Stir the powder into the fluid soul-stuff. Then all you need to do is mix it up with hibiscus La Croix, Angostura bitters and lavender simple syrup, for a bittersweet and mournful drink with notes of blackberry, almonds and longing for immortality. Alcohol? Don’t need any – the base of this drink is already “spirits”!

Finally, a little digestif to serve after dessert: a Snorunt snowmelt liqueur. To make this, you basically pickle a whole Snorunt in alcohol, along with lots of sugar and a traditional Sinnohan herb bouquet that includes anise, thyme, shiso, coriander and orange blossom. Store the whole thing at just over freezing temperatures (~1º C or 34º F), and wait for the icy parts of the Snorunt’s body to melt. This will take several weeks, by which time the flavours should have had time to infuse. Strain out the herbs, throw away what’s left of the Snorunt, and the liqueur is ready to serve – always chilled, with a cube of Nevermeltice for best results. The main flavour from the Snorunt melt is sweet orange, but there’s also a complex herbal/liquorice undertone.

That’s it! Four potent drinks for a four-course meal for four excellent bois. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas (or happy Hannukah, or a general happy December solstice) to @ichewspod and all the other Chewsies!


Happy new year! And Psyduck is on the menu – well then, you simply have to try that most classic of Kanto recipes: Peking Psyduck. This is a dish that dates back hundreds of years, and every restaurant in Kanto insists that they have the one true authentic recipe. Basically you take the fattest Psyduck you can find, glaze it with soy sauce, five-spice and maltose syrup, hang it out to dry for a day or so, then roast it whole until the skin is crispy. Normally you serve thin slices in a pancake wrap with vegetables and a sweet sauce.

If you get Peking Psyduck in Saffron City, they’ll serve it with chopped Farfetch’d leeks, fresh cucumber and a Lum Berry sauce. In Celadon, you’re more likely to see shredded Oddish leaves, a dusting of Stun Spore powder and Pecha berries soaked in Weepinbell acid. On Cinnabar Island, chefs smoke their Peking Psyduck. Supposedly they used to do this over molten lava flows, but the fumes would’ve made the meat taste pretty funky, so that’s probably a myth. The modern smoked Psyduck goes pretty well with pickled Tangela fronds, though. In Pewter City, Peking Psyduck is glazed with maple syrup, then served with mashed Diglett, Paras shrooms and a paste made from spiced Exeggcute curd – that last part is… an acquired taste. But make sure you don’t miss Lavender Town, where Peking Psyduck is infused with fragrant incense as it dries, and served with a rich, dark nightshade sauce that usually won’t kill you if the chef is up to scratch. Less traditional, but still a great pairing with any variety of Peking Psyduck, is a chilled can of refreshing hibiscus La Croix. Enjoy!


Who wants some hot, nutritious, flavourful bone broth? Essential for growing boys like yourselves; really puts hairs on your chest. Just boil some Cubone skull helmets and bone clubs in a big pot of water, with a splash of vinegar and plenty of salt. The only tricky part is, you have to boil them for three days to break down the marrow and extract all the nutrients. Keep a lid on the pot so you don’t lose too much water (this would be a good time to break out your trusty Claydol head tajine) and take turns adjusting the heat. Bone broth is rich in protein, and Cubone bones are the best because of their magical connection to the strength of Cubone’s ancestors. Drink a cup of hot bone broth with dinner every day if you’re trying to bulk up, or use it as the base for your favourite Kantonian soup recipe. For me, that means diced Diglett, thin slices of barbeque marinated Slowpoke tail, chopped Farfetch’d leeks, fresh Oddish greens, lots of garlic and some spicy Spelon Berry paste. And if you’re still thirsty, you can always wash it down with a refreshing tangerine La Croix.



this recipe is bad and you shouldn’t use it at home

BUT if we’re doing classic Johto dishes that I Chews You missed on the first pass… there’s no getting around it; we have to do sour Miltank udders.

If that sounds bad, don’t worry; it gets so much worse.

This is an Olivine City “delicacy” (and I use that word very loosely) where they basically pickle Miltank udders in Miltank milk. First, clean the udders, salt them and smoke them for a couple of hours. While that’s happening, heat the milk almost to a boil, to kill microbes. Some traditional farms don’t do this. Avoid them like the plague. Cool the milk and add sugar and some pickling spices; cinnamon, chilli, mustard, powdered Oran Berry, ground Heracross horn, Pineco shavings… whatever; throw in anything, it’s not going to taste good anyway.

Add a cup of vinegar to the milk. Yes, it will immediately curdle. That’s part of it. I warned you. This is like making cheese, and you also introduce cheese fermenting bacteria here, but instead of separating the curds and whey, you just… fµ¢£in’… drop the udders in, then seal it in a barrel for a month. Flip the barrel over three times a day so the curds don’t all just settle on the bottom. A month later, when you fish out the udders, the fermentation should have taken them from rubbery to… kinda gelatinous. They taste like yoghurt flavoured with raw beef. There should also be a… meaty, cheesy residue. This is supposedly edible. This dish is often served with Bellossom tubers, roasted Skiploom, crispy Yanma wings, or fried Tauros testicles (those are actually surprisingly good). Your La Croix pairing this week is…

…fµ¢£ it, just get a bottle of the cheapest, strongest Hoppip whiskey you can find; that’s what everyone else drinks with this $#!t.


In New Zealand we have this thing called a whitebait fritter, which is made from the tiny juveniles (or “whitebait”) of this fish called an inanga. It’s an easy and beloved national dish, so I’d like to share a version with a Johtoan twist: Woopbait fritters.

You need to catch yourself a whole mess of tiny, newly-hatched Wooper tadpoles in a big net as they swim upstream. You want to get them when they’re so young that they’re only a few inches long and their skin is clear like glass, and you’re trying to catch dozens at a time. Once you have your Woopbait, beat some eggs and just mix them in whole – head, gills, tail and all. The meat is extremely tender and even the bones are so fine that no preparation is needed; just throw the whole thing in. Season the mixture with salt and pepper, then fry spoonfuls of it in butter. Cook each fritter for a couple of minutes on each side, then serve them with a squeeze of lemon juice, maybe a sprig of parsley if you’re feeling fancy – and, of course, an ice cold lemon La Croix.


Here’s the thing about cooking Nosepass: eating magnets is really dangerous. If you have two separate chunks of magnet in your guts, they can attract each other and rip through the walls of your intestine. This, as many important doctors have said, would be bad. But if you’re cooking and eating Nosepass, you want that magnetic power. You want to consume the magnet, absorb the magnet, become the magnet, BE the magnet. Obviously we need a special cooking technique that will distill Nosepass’s magnetism into a form we can safely devour.

Start by crushing Nosepass’s gigantic red magnetic schnozz into a fine powder, using first a hammer, then a mortar and pestle. RESIST THE OVERWHELMING TEMPTATION TO SNORT THE NOSE DUST. Using the liquid metal from the body of a Meltan, and some heat if needed, dissolve the nose. This thick metallic fluid will serve as the base for our sauce. Season it with salt, pepper, cloves, allspice, dried coconut and just a dash of copper filings. Next, using an industrial marble-cutting saw, carve the rest of your Nosepass’s body into steaks, about 1.5 cm thick. Liberally baste the Nosepass steaks with your magnetic sauce, then roast them at 600 ºC (about 1100 ºF) until they’re tender, which should be about a week. Baste them again every morning so all the flavours properly infuse the tough, stoney meat! Serve the steaks with more of the sauce, some tropical fruits like pineapple and mango, fried in butter, and a refreshing can of “Pure” La Croix.

Warning: For about a month after eating this dish, you will be unable to turn your face away from magnetic north. Your body may also attract small iron or steel objects like nails and cutlery. So… maybe stay out of the kitchen for a while.


Grovyle leaves are a beloved herb for their distinctive fresh, spicy flavour – somewhere between black pepper, mint and lime zest. They flavour classic Hoennese dishes like Torchic katsu, Swablu wing soup, Makuhita dumplings, cream of Shroomish soup, the list goes on. Grovyle meat is less popular, because Grovyle is a very active Pokémon and that tends to make the meat quite tough and stringy, but you can slow-cook it.

What they do in Fortree City is make a wrap from woven Grovyle leaves and stuff it with stewed Grovyle meat. Simply chop the meat into bite-sized chunks and throw it in a pot with some water and a pile of other ingredients: carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, crushed Sceptile seed pods. Cook for a couple of hours, then fry some rice and make a nice salsa of Pinap, Lum and Razz Berries. The tricky part is weaving the Grovyle leaves into a sheet that you can roll up with all the fillings inside like a burrito. You could just use Tropius wings instead, but there’s something special about the braided look and texture – and they taste great with a mango La Croix.


This week we’re cooking Trapinch, and Trapinch lives in a hole in the ground. This actually gives me an opportunity to evangelise some New Zealand culture – by cooking Trapinch in its own pit trap, using a Māori roasting technique known as hāngī.

First, dig a pit. Luckily, Trapinch has done that for us, so we’re ahead already! Then pile alternating layers of wood and stones into the pit. Light a fire on top to burn for at least an hour – the wood will burn and the stones will absorb the heat, becoming red-hot. While that’s happening, season a couple of Trapinch with salt and herb butter, using some of our favourite Hoennese herbs like Nuzleaf and Grovyle leaves, and maybe some dried Cheri berries for spice. Wrap them up in some big Tropius leaves and tie the packages with string. Finally, line a space in the middle of the pit with damp sack-cloth (to keep the dirt out and create steam), throw in the Trapinch and some Diglett potatoes, and bury everything. This traps heat from the stones and steam from the damp cloth, cooking the food slowly and gently. After 4 hours cooking underground, dig everything up, unwrap the food and enjoy your perfectly slow-roasted, tender and succulent Trapinch – cooked in its own trap. Your La Croix pairing this week is limoncello, just because Evan trashed it in the Grovyle episode and he’s wrong.

Some pronunciation notes: Māori is two syllables, not three (something like mah-ree or moh-ree, NOT may-or-ree) The ng in hāngī is a soft sound as in “singing”, not a hard g-sound as in “anger” Also hāngī is the technique, the pit itself is an umu (oo-moo)


Who needs a fancy recipe for cooking and eating Slowpoke, when you can just chew on a delicious, not-at-all-nutritious Slowpoke tail? Kick back, relax and just savour this sweet, chewy treat all afternoon as you stare out over a peaceful lake, contemplating existence.

On the other hand, this is I Chews You: cooking Pokémon is serious business! The Pokédex tells us that in Alola, people take dried Slowpoke tails and simmer them in “a salty stew,” while in Galar, Slowpoke’s regional form has a spicy taste to its tail from eating Galarica nuts. We even have an Alolan stew recipe from Mallow’s trial in the Lush Jungle on Sun & Moon: sweet Mago Berries, Tiny Mushrooms, a little bitter Revival Herb and a Miracle Seed. So who’s up for some fusion cooking? Let’s make an Alolan Slowpoketail stew with some Galarian flavours.

First, fry some Galarian Farfetch’d leek, garlic and a medley of Paras and Morelull caps. Chop up the Mago Berries and throw it all in a pot, along with the Revival Herb, a crushed Miracle Seed, a cup of Tauros stock, and of course a pound of smoked, dried Galar Slowpoke tails. Normal Slowpoke tails are quite sweet and Galarian ones are spicy, so we’ll balance it with sweet-and-spicy Galarica honey and diced Appletun (with the back skin – which the Pokédex tells us is delicious). Bring to a boil and simmer for an hour or so until it’s nice and thick. Serve with sticky rice and garnish with a handful of chopped, roasted Galarica nuts – and, of course, a chilled can of tropical mango La Croix. Happy hundredth episode, love to all the boixs, and here’s to a hundred more!


I’m sure you’ve already found this fantastic resource in your research for cooking and eating Glameow: http://coffeemachinecuisine.com/cook-cat-coffee-maker/…

The Pokémon world has coffee – they serve it in Alolan Pokémon Centres – but there isn’t really a coffee Pokémon, so probably the best way to adapt this recipe is by cooking your Glameow stew in a Polteageist pot. Make sure you get the curly tail – that’s where the flavour is!

Have Polteigest use Will’o’Wisp to fry your Glameow meat with garlic and onions, add some Galarian curry roux and chopped Galarica nuts for spice, then pour in some cream and a generous glug of top-shelf Sinnohan Cherubi wine. Slap the lid on, then simmer the stew for two hours.

Of course, nothing goes better with cat than dog, so throw in some chopped Yamper sausage as well for a bit of Electric-type zing. And to complete the Sinnoh/Galar fusion cuisine feel we’ve got going here, sprinkle some fresh Leafeon leaves over the stew just before serving. Cooking in a Polteageist pot has a tendency to add a slight… death-y taste to the food, so it might be a good idea to pair this with a lively, happy La Croix flavour like “beach plum” (one of 2021’s three new flavours that I’m sure will receive a La Croix Boix segment soon).


Drapion isn’t a Pokémon you go out of your way to cook and eat. It’s big, tough, mean, poisonous and just deeply unpleasant. It will ambush and attack you when you try to cross the desert in its territory. Even in a cool, wet region like Sinnoh, with no deserts, Drapion adapts to live in swamps, just so it can continue to be a jerk to you. With no regard for ecological plausibility, it will happily live anywhere that humans find difficult or dangerous, working tirelessly and often sadistically to make the situation worse for everyone.

Obviously, the main reason any of us should want to cook or eat Drapion is simply: revenge.

And this is what they do in Pastoria City, or at least what they used to do back in the savage old days of pitchfork justice. This is actually why Pastoria Gym’s signature move is Scald: when a Drapion became notorious for attacking caravans or killing travellers, they would go out and boil the awful thing alive with their Water Pokémon, then hack it into bits and flash-freeze the pieces with Ice Beam to keep it fresh so they could eat it over the next month. Just like king crabs’ shells turn orange when you boil them, and lobsters turn red, Drapion’s carapace becomes shocking pink. When you scoop the meat out, it’s very soft and has a pretty subtle flavour, so you shouldn’t overpower it with lots of spice or rich sauces. You can make a simple dipping sauce by mixing a few drops of Drapion’s own sharp, astringent venom from the tail into some melted butter (traditionally Bibarel butter, since Miltank aren’t native to Sinnoh, but you can use whatever you have). Serve with fried wild rice, a fried Exeggcute, some blanched Carnivine tendrils and a couple of Nomel Berry wedges (like a slightly spicy lemon). The traditional Pastoria beverage is swamp water filtered through Hippopotas sand, but for modern palates I suggest the subtle freshness of watermelon La Croix.


The thing about cooking and eating Hippowdon is the sand. So much sand. It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets everywhere. If you don’t cook Hippowdon right, you’ll be picking sand out of your teeth (and potentially… other orifices) for weeks.

You might think you can just hang a Hippowdon carcass upside down and the sand will drain out of the vents on its back. Rookie mistake. There are glands and cysts inside its body that are full of sand. You need to learn to identify and remove them without slicing them open. It’s like being a fugu chef and learning to cut out the poisonous bits of a pufferfish, but instead of dying if you get it wrong, you just get a big mouthful of sand.

Assuming you don’t screw this up, you can then carve up Hippowdon and just cook it like a tough cut of beef. Tenderise thoroughly with a Metang-steel mallet; marinate for a couple of hours in Cherubi wine with Combee honey, garlic, mustard, black pepper and cinnamon; then cook it low and slow. Serve your Hippowdon steaks with Diglett roasted in Bidoof fat and a side of Grotle greens. Hippowdon is tricky to prepare but rewarding, with a rich yet gamey flavour, more earthy than Donphan and less tangy than Excadrill, that pairs well with a creamy, lightly spiced béchamel sauce. If you get it right, make sure to reward yourself with a refreshing apricot La Croix.


You want to cook and eat Regigigas? You know there’s only one of those, right? In… the world, I think? I mean, I’ll do it, obviously; I just think we need to take a moment to acknowledge the cosmic significance of this never-to-be-repeated meal.

In recognition of Regigigas’ special status as the king of golems, I propose we cook the different parts of its body with methods and ingredients that pay tribute to its five legendary creations: Regice, Regirock, Registeel, Regieleki and Regidrago. First, in memory of Regice, we drain Regigigas’ divine life-giving blood and mix it into a cocktail, to be served in goblets of pure ice. Add a measure of fine Cherubi wine, a hint of Combee Drambuie, a wisp of Spiritomb soul-fire and, of course, top it off with berry La Croix.

To honour Regirock, we crush Regigigas’ mineral-rich bones in a colossal stone mortar, grinding the giant’s bones to make our bread – fee fi fo fum. Mix the bonemeal with flour, water, a pinch of salt and some ground Sudowoodo stone-herbs. You’ll need a stronger rising agent than normal yeast for this supernatural bone dough – I suggest a sourdough starter grown from Shiinotic spores, which will give the bread a pleasing glow and some mild psychoactive properties.

In homage to Registeel, we’ll slow-cook Regigigas’ legs in a steel pressure cooker for 10,000 years. …okay, maybe 10,000 seconds (just under 3 hours). Throw in some Combee honey, garlic, onion, Applin vinegar, and liquid Magmortar smoke, then just leave it to stew.

As a tribute to Regieleki, we will fry Regigigas’ shoulders and arms with sheer electrical current. Apply a spice rub of chilli powder, sumac, lemon zest and mashed Wacan Berries, which can absorb Electric-type attacks to produce a delicious sweet-and-sour taste. Plug an Electivire into each arm, then Thunderbolt them at maximum power to get a crispy lightning-charred skin with a succulent rare interior.

Last, but most certainly not least, to show our respect for Regidrago, we can carve up Regigigas’ torso with a dragon-bone knife. Half of the meat from the torso should be offered raw as a sacrifice to any Dragon Pokémon in your area. The rest, you can cover in salt mixed with crushed Dragonair crystals, then leave to cure for a few months, allowing the life energy from the crystals to seep into the meat.

Also, as long as we’re here, we may as well use that green moss on Regigigas’ back and feet. I dunno if I’d trust it as a straight herb, but I bet it’d make a pretty trippy absinthe – and if the taste is too strong, you can always temper it with some grapefruit La Croix.


A glorious day is upon us, the day we cook and eat the greatest memelord in all of Pokémon: Bidoof. Today I have for you no exotic cooking techniques, no secret ingredients: only one precious fragment of knowledge. And that is that beaver ass is vanilla flavoured.

(I’m just going to leave that statement hanging there; I’m sure you’ve probably discovered this yourselves already – but if you haven’t, GOOGLE IT NOW; YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM THE COSMIC TRUTH)

It follows, with an elegant inevitability, that the first vanilla ice cream in the Pokémon world was not made from the cool soft-serve bodies of Vanillite, nor from Miltank milk and Swirlix sugar flavoured with some obscure berry, nor even from the creamy body of Alcremie. Vanilla ice cream in the Pokémon world is made from Bidoof and Bibarel milk, naturally flavoured by just… generously dunking Bidoof’s whole butt in it. And of course, the only way to truly enjoy a scoop of rich Bidoof vanilla ice cream is in a cherry La Croix float.

(P.S. The drink that, in America, you call an ice cream or soda “float,” we in New Zealand call a “spider,” as in a “coke spider.” No, I don’t know why.)


Rotom’s really a Pokémon that you cook with, in the normal course of events – stick it in your microwave, and your $#!tty instant noodles will come out like authentic Sinnohan street food every time. But say, for the sake of argument, you want to eat Rotom itself. What you need to do is convince Rotom to possess something edible. Normally Rotom can only inhabit mechanical things, so: what do? Answer: get creative with culinary gold.

Gold is chemically inert, which makes it perfectly safe to eat if it’s beaten into thin enough foil. Start with a recipe for a layered food like a lasagna, baklava or even just a club sandwich. While preparing it, use an elaborate tracery of gold leaf to create a circuit-board design on each layer. The more complex the design and the more layers you use, the better. When it’s finished, coax Rotom to possess your lasagna by sticking a couple of jumper cables into it to provide some electricity. If necessary, perform an exorcism on your dishwasher or whatever, to force Rotom out of its current abode. You can now eat Rotom! Its presence lends food a fascinating electrical zing that will put a spring in your step all day. Be warned, however, that if you use this recipe, Rotom will still be alive when you eat it, and your meal may try to float away or spit its filling at you.

Also, if you have a pacemaker or similar medical implant, Rotom may take over it and attempt to exact its revenge by stopping your heart. To guard against this possibility, I advise pairing this meal with the cleansing, spiritually balancing power of a can of “pure” La Croix.


So here’s the thing; my search history now contains the phrase “how to cook penguin” and I don’t think there’s any way back from that. Some acts permanently stain the soul. Luckily, this is ICY, where penguins are not even in the top ten cutest things on the menu.

Let me paint you a picture. You go to Lake Acuity, in north Sinnoh. It’s cold as fµ¢£. A Snover has eaten your shirt and a Sneasel has stolen your pants. You ate your last Fire Pokémon days ago. You ask a Meditite to share some food, and it gives you a single frozen Occa Berry. Night is falling. Snowpoint City is, like, 30 minutes away on foot, but you’re way too proud to ask those hicks for help. All of a sudden, you encounter these big, fat, flightless bird Pokémon who don’t seem bothered by the cold at all. All their blubber must keep them warm.

And if you don’t see where I’m going with this, you are not the kind of person who has ever Googled “how to cook penguin.”

You go full Han-Solo-and-Luke’s-tauntaun on that $#!t. Just fµ¢£in’ slice a Prinplup’s belly open and climb inside so the heat from its guts keeps you warm. If you survive the night, you can build a crappy little fire to cook the best bits of Prinplup’s guts. According to polar explorers, you should stew the heart and liver. I recommend seasoning with garlic, cinnamon, pepper and a splash of Cherubi brandy, like a delicate pâté (obviously you have a selection of spices with you – yeah, you just slept inside the carcass of a cute penguin Pokémon, but you’re not a fµ¢£ing savage). And naturally, you also have with you a warming taste of the tropics in the form of a refreshing can of mango La Croix.

okay genuinely though, wtf did I just write


listen I don’t want to harsh your vibes but this one makes no fµ¢£ing sense

Say for the sake of argument that you have a Bronzong and you need food. Here is an incomplete list of more useful things you could do than trying to cook and eat a massive bronze bell:

1. Use Bronzong’s weather control powers to help grow your crops, ensuring that your entire family eats well for the whole year.

2. Turn Bronzong upside down and use it as a cooking pot (something it can do better than any other Steel Pokémon thanks to the Heatproof ability).

3. Melt down your Bronzong into raw copper, use the copper to mint some coins and just buy a fµ¢£ing Hippowdon steak.

4. Use Bronzong’s Hypnosis to not only trick people into giving you THEIR food, but potentially brainwash them into bringing you more food every day forever.

5. Drop Bronzong on a wild Pokémon’s head like Wile E. Coyote dropping a fµ¢£ing anvil so you can eat THAT Pokémon instead (again, Bronzong has an ability that makes it very good at this, Heavy Metal, which raises its weight to nearly 400 kilograms).

6. Bronzong can learn Trick. Literally just steal $#!t. Wild Pokémon have berries. Fµ¢£ing take them.

7. Have Bronzong pose as a fire alarm in an office building, and fake a fire drill. When the workers leave the building, go to the break room fridge and steal everyone’s lunch.

and finally, 8. Use Bronzong as a drinking cup when you try the new “Guava São Paulo” flavour of La Croix.


So. Stunky. We’re going to cook and eat a Pokémon whose main feature is that it smells absolutely fµ¢£ing rancid, unbelievably foul, like vomit and rotting fish and an open sewer and… truly just anything else you can think of. If it smells disgusting, it’s in there. Now, you *can* painstakingly butcher Stunky to remove the scent glands without breaking them open and drenching all the meat in awful stink juice. If ya go to south Sinnoh, sometimes they dry this stuff for jerky, or roast chunks on a skewer – but not often, because it’s $#!t. Stunky are kinda small and skinny and stringy, and there’s just not a lot of good meat on them… it’s just deeply not worth it. Mostly people only bother to prepare them like this when there’s no other food left and they’re reduced to eating dried Glameow tails and $#!t. We’re not gonna do that. This is I Chews You. We’re all about the gourmet $#!t. If you’re cooking Stunky you’ve gotta embrace the stink.

Carefully extract the scent glands, just like before, but this time, put on a heavy-duty gas mask and bottle the disgusting garbage-liquor (if at any point you spill any of the raw fluid… look, just burn your clothes and move to a different postcode; you’re never going to get the smell out). Age it for at least a month in a cool dry place, then take one drop and mix it into a litre of water. Diluted by a factor of 20,000, this stuff is still pretty scary, but a discerning palette can begin to appreciate complex notes of onion, mustard, horseradish, leek and ginger. That leaves you with, basically, a pungent but sophisticated stock that you can use in a variety of savoury sauces and marinades. Barbeque Bidoof rolls, Hippowdon steaks, fried Croagunk legs, Gabite fin soup, it works with everything. And yeah… yeah, you can marinate your goddamn scraps of $#!tty chewy Stunky meat in it, then mix a few spoonfuls into a spicy Cheri Berry sauce or something, serve it with some white rice and… I dunno, like a lemon La Croix or something, I don’t even give a $#!t anymore.


Starly doesn’t have any freaky anatomy or elemental powers, so you can kinda cook it any way you want. In Sinnoh they do a style of fried Starly called zangi, where it’s marinated in a sweet soy-and-ginger sauce, covered in Diglett starch, then deep-fried. But Starly are also naturally found in Kalos, and the Kalosians… they turn that $#!t up to 11.

Here’s what you gotta do. Put your Starly in a tiny cage, like so tiny it can hardly move and can’t stretch its wings. Keep it in a dark place, like a cupboard. Then feed it. Feed this Starly on the tastiest berries you can find, for six weeks. The prolonged darkness triggers Starly’s instinct to fatten itself up for winter migration, so it’ll eat anything you put in front of it and never stop, getting fatter and more delicious by the day. Once Starly reaches critical mass, drown it in a jar in top-shelf Sinnohan Cherubi brandy. Let it marinate in the brandy for a few hours, then roast the bird whole.

That’s it. That’s the entire recipe. Serve it whole, eat it whole, starting from the feet, leaving only the beak. Traditionally you’re supposed to cover your head with a napkin while eating – some say this is so other diners don’t have to watch you spit out the bones, others that it keeps the aroma of the brandy from escaping, others that it protects you from the disapproving stare of God. The truth is that the napkin prevents adult Staraptor from seeing what you’re doing and dive-bombing the $#!t out of you. Trust me, once one of those birds wants you dead, your life is gonna change – so savour what might be your last meal alongside a cold cherry & lime La Croix.

Disclaimer: this recipe is actually illegal in Kalos now because the technique is so cruel, but because it was never a traditional dish in Sinnoh, no one’s ever seen the need to outlaw it. I’m just sayin’, there’s a business opportunity there that no-one’s spotted yet.

P.S. This is a real French recipe for cooking a bird called an ortolan, which is the culinary equivalent of pure Colombian white heroin. It’s prepared only by black market chefs for exclusive high-society dinners, and is described by diners as a transcendent religious experience.

8 thoughts on “Pokémon I have cooked and eaten

  1. On Beldum: maybe it actually has proper blood, but instead of its heart being a muscular pump it’s some weird rock that does things with magnetism that an X-Men writer would call bull**** on. Blood has iron in it, after all…

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I used to run a post-post-apocalyptic Pokemon tabletop RPG for some friends, which *definitely* involved it some “pokemon and people cooking and crafting things from each others’ body parts” (as a mix of both: one player had a Shellder-shell wok).

    Wish I’d had a resource like this back then!

    Liked by 1 person

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