A Proper Roast: The Adventure

I confess: I'm having an illicit love affair with Yorkshire pudding. For the uninitiated, Yorkshire pudding isn't a pudding at all, in either the British (dessert catch-all) or American (goopy gelatinous variety) sense. The closest Stateside comparison I can come up with is a popover: light, airy, biscuit-type thing that comes with the almighty Sunday Roast, assuming the roast is worth its salt. And this week, I needed me some Yorkshire pud-lovin'.

the little buggers themselves. Don't they look tasty? 

Thus inspired, I decided to partake in what I consider one of Britain's greatest inventions: the Sunday Roast. Touted as a taste of home for those far afield, an excellent hangover cure and an excuse to lounge all afternoon eating and drinking copious amounts of delectable fare over the Sunday paper, the Roast is a lovely tradition to enjoy, particularly on a cold and blustery Sunday afternoon or evening. Check and check for yesterday's weather, so I grabbed a friend and off we went in search of fabulous feasting.

Alas, not our destination. Better luck next time.

So we went. And we went. And we wandered all around Shoreditch in search of The Carpenter's Arms, an out-of-the-way hidey hole of a pub. My American companion and I are of the same mind: that tucked-away places tend to be of a higher calibre than those on the high street, and we haven't been disproven yet. The side effect, of course, of this mindset is that we spend a lot of time wandering around. But! But! We did find our destination without too much trouble, thanks in large part to my friend's blackberry and its mapping feature. God bless handheld computers. Sadly, our rejoicing was cut short by two thick chalk lines drawn through the roast portion of the chalkboard menu. Foiled, by golly.

But we would not be deterred! After all, this was a quest, and we were hungry. Very hungry. And cold. But not, it turns out, too much of either to wander around Shoreditch for somewhere in the neighborhood of another two hours before reaching our next destination: The Owl and the Pussycat.

Compliments of flickr. Hey, it was nighttime.

With our last ounces of strength and patience, we hoofed it up to the dimly-lit creatively decorated upstairs dining room, fully equipped with rough-hewn wooden tables and rockabilly wait staff and bar that balanced on the edge of funky and frumpy. Was it worth it? Oh, yeah. First, the bread basket. Do you know how rare is to find a bread basket at a London pub, particularly one with chewy granary bread and soft, spreadable butter? This was heaven on a little wooden plate, my friend. A generous pour of red wine (mediocre, but this is Britain, after all) soon arrived for me and a pint of something strong and tasty for my friend, and we were well on our way. Next: the main event. Let me sum it all up by saying I don't remember the last time I ate beef, but if I could have my choice of ways to break my moo-cow fast, this would be it all over again. And again. Our plates (or should I say, platters) arrived heaped with two thick-cut slabs of beef, tender enough to cut with a butter knife and perfectly rosy in the center, a modest pile of roasted root vegetables, duck-fat roasted potatoes and shredded red cabbage in wine, all swimming in dark, rich gravy and topped off with a Yorkshire pudding crown the size of my fist. Success, my friends. Ample success.

see, there they are again. With their buddy Mr. Beef. 

Because you can't have a proper Sunday roast without dessert, we opted to go soup-to-nuts on this one and pile more bounty into our already-bursting tummies. I went for the "lavender burnt cream with wholemeal shortbreads," hoping for something exciting and delicious. As I soon discovered, "burnt cream = creme brulee." Awesome. And it was. Oh, it was. Sweet, flowery, and slightly spicy, the lavender balanced out the creaminess perfectly, all topped off with that burnt sugar I could eat all day.

I'll be honest, the adventure wasn't cheap. I wouldn't be able to afford this sort of thing every week, particularly not on my current student's salary (snicker), but for a special occasion? Definitely worth the trek. And hey, Sunday is a special occasion, right?

The best part? We staggered out of the Owl and Pussycat, our bloated bellies leading the way, and turned left out the door. There, literally two minutes down the street, was our metro stop. The only thing better than cozying up for the evening with a fabulous feast? Toddling home to your bed afterward without wandering two hours to get there. Overall? A well-orchestrated evening, indeed.