'Sorry, but the best Sunday roasts are always at home'
There's no better meal to have on a Sunday than a roast dinner. It's (basically) the one thing we excel at as a nation. The ultimate cosy, comforting and nostalgic dish that practically no one dislikes (and if you do, are you ok?) Whether it's a big family get-together and cause for celebration, with a roasted turkey and potatoes piled high, or an intimate afternoon with friends pouring over a nut roast and an obligatory sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Or maybe it's just a simple meal for one in front of the TV. Truly, nothing beats a roast dinner - and one cooked at home really is the cherry Yorkshire pudding on top of the cake plate.
I have a lot of beef (pardon the pun) with pub and restaurant roasts. Firstly, and most importantly: the price. You'd be hard-pressed to find a decent Sunday roast in London for under £20, and you're almost always paying an unreasonable amount of money for very little food. Two slices of meat? One roast potato? No parsnips? And that's before we talk about the additional £5 for a bang-average cauliflower cheese side and surcharge for extra gravy.
Speaking of gravy, why is the sauce always *so thin*? It's is an essential part of a roast dinner and often feels like a restaurant after-thought, with both the flavour and volume lacking. If I'm having a Yorkshire pudding, I need it drowning, barely visible under a thick brown puddle.
And while I like my Yorkie oozing, I don't appreciate soggy vegetables. Yet the majority of pubs seem to insist on serving something resembling baby food levels of mush (see: swede) as oppose to roasted honey-glazed carrots. They're the golden ticket of roast dinners, and yet you'd be hard pushed to find them done well anywhere but your own kitchen table. As for the most important vegetable on that roast dinner plate: potatoes.
The humble root vegetable is very important in my household, to the extent that it's somewhat of a religion. And not to be facetious, but if they're not done right? Frankly they ruin the entire roast. You could have the best lamb on offer or the most succulent chicken breast, but if you're not getting those roasties right? Don't bother. I've lost count of the number of times I've been served a beautiful cut of beef, only for it to be accompanied by hard yet non-crispy potatoes.
And yes OK, so there are some exceptions to my sweeping generalisation (surprise, surprise.) The Smokehouse in Islington does a roast worth trekking across London for, while I'm still thinking about the leek and cauliflower cheese at The Firehouse in Manchester almost a year on.
But even these two fine establishments are not enough to dissuade me from the joy of a homemade roast. Unlike in a pub, there's no rushing to get a table or being told the chefs have run out of roast pork. You can choose the specific cut and quantity of meat you want, the exact crispness of your tatties, and the perfect ratio of gravy to play. No one's left disappointed, and nothing's done by halves: you can fill up on your ideal roast elements to your heart's content.
A Sunday meal should be a leisurely meal, cooked and eaten at your own pace. No vacating for the next 90 minute table slot, or struggling to hear your housemate's gossip over the loud family get-together at the table next door. And what could be better than an immediate second helping, or heading straight to the sofa with apple crumble in hand and a movie on TV?
More than anything, a Sunday roast made at home (SRMAT for short..?) is the ultimate dose of nostalgia. Growing up (and tbh still today), my mum would happily admit she didn't spend a lot of time in the kitchen, but for someone who "doesn't like to cook", her roast dinner remains one of my all time favourite meals.
For many families with ever busy schedules, a Sunday roast is the one chance a week to really get together and catch up. Even if they're often served with a side of calamity (my dad once left the stuffing in the oven and we only discovered it when it as a charred mess), those meals become important memories. They're signifiers of family tradition. Symbols of love and warmth. An ever comforting feeling of home. And just think of the crispy potatoes.
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