Roast Dinners in London

It was a long and unsuccessful Sunday, and it started at Ffiona’s in Kensington.

That roast dinner, defeat in the final of the Euro’s, and a bad miss from a shooter in the USA.

I jest on the latter, as political violence of any form is abhorrent, from death threats to protesting outside MPs houses, and especially violent acts. Unless the target is a murderous dictator – of which Trump is not, yet, just a wannabe dictator who wouldn’t accept the results of the previous election so had his mob invade the Capitol, who also has a long string of accusations of sexual assault against him, and a liking for young girls.,

Honestly, I was going to try to keep politics out of the blog for a while, and maybe focus my tangential (dear Oxford Dictionary this word would be better as “tangentical”) interjections on the history of photocopiers or something. I tried, at least roughly as much as Trump tried to keep his hands off young girls.

Anyway, it was Sunday, England were in another Euro’s final despite Gareth Southgate apparently being the most unsuccessful manager in world history having relegated England to the Vauxhall Conference, along with qualifying comfortably for all 4 tournaments (hey McLaren), getting us to two finals (hey Hodgson), one semi (hey hot Spanish women) and one quarter (hey…most other England managers), won more knock-out games than all other England managers put together, and pretty much brought the country back together after the vandalism of Brexit.

Hell, us remoaner folk were granted permission to be proud to be English once more, albeit only for a few weeks every other summer. It’s a start though…I’ve even considered buying a small England flag badge for my tweed jacket.

It Didn’t Come Home

There was a long day ahead and a good roast dinner was required. Or was it? For the last time we were in the final of the Euros (SouthGREAT being the manager again, but I’m sure we’ll win all the next 10 tournaments if he doesn’t stay on) I had a very good roast dinner at The Jugged Hare, with excellent gravy. Maybe having a shit roast dinner would mean it coming home?

There was plenty about Ffiona’s that felt like it was coming home. It was a cosy if slightly dated restaurant, an independent and fairly traditional British restaurant in the middle of chi-chi Kensington – no trying to be posh, no trying to be anything other than what they are – and I assume run by someone called Ffiona.

It’s the kind of restaurant that I hate giving bad reviews to, but you’ve seen the photograph, you’ve felt the ominous signs, and here we are. I’d love to be talking about an amazing roast dinner, a 4-1 victory over Spain, a marriage proposal from a hot Spanish woman and the new interesting young presidential candidates in the USA. And photocopiers.

But we are where we are, and I’m desperately trying to find nice things to say about an independent restaurant run by who seemed to be a lovely lady. Firstly, the service was nice – along with the charming (assumedly) Ffiona, there were two young friendly women, albeit we ordered the lamb roasts on offer, except they weren’t on offer. The beer selection could have been worse – a local pale ale was fairly ordinary, but at least it wasn’t Stella. And the brunches looked good – the locals who are regulars here probably know to order them, and not the roasts.

It’s notable that their Instagram doesn’t show photos of the roasts, but focuses on brunches. Possibly a sign I should have read, or did read but took no notice of. People seem to rave about the chicken Kyiv also.

It Still Didn’t Come Home

On offer at Ffiona’s was chicken or pork, with a suggestion of two courses at £34.00. I chose chicken, mostly because I try to have a different meat each week, and next Sunday is roast dinner 300 so maybe I’ll want pork belly (if they offer it).

Normally I’d be refusing two courses and insisting on my right to have just one course, but I was in fuck it mode, as evidenced by two bags of chocolate when I got home, and a pack of sausage rolls. And another beer. Somehow I consumed 6,500 calories during the course of the day, which is the consumption I recall, anyway. Oops. Fucking SouthGREAT – I would have had 3,000 calories if Capello was in charge, as we would have lost against Slovakia.

Some butter then arrived.

Do you have any idea what I was supposed to do with it? Nope, me neither but both myself and my accomplice (first ever roast club for her, LOL) considered just eating it whole. We didn’t.

And then Southgate played 4 at the back. Oh and then this arrived:

Sigh. More notGREAT than SouthGREAT. Starting with the carrots (have I had a roast dinner in 2024 without carrots?), these were a little crunchy, a tiny bit sweet but generally fairly ordinary.

Nope, It Really Didn’t Come Home

The cabbage was stringy and terse, ready to snap at me after being 0-0 for 5 minutes that SouthGREAT is a terrible manager for only getting us to TWO finals. I really didn’t like it.

Three small roast potatoes were just quite shit. Probably McLaren/Hodgson/Capello levels of shit. Old, tired and grey – one tasted burnt too.

A little respite from the Yorkshire pudding – homemade with a bit of crisp to the top, a little fluffiness inside. My accomplice was suspicious of the roundness, but I’m pretty sure it was homemade and not Bessie’d.

And I actually liked the stuffing, but stuffing is hard to get wrong unless you start putting weird things in like apricot. This was proper sage and onion, perhaps some breadcrumbs. You could argue a little too coarse, but I’m trying to be kind…where possible.

The chicken didn’t impress, the breast was very much on the dry side, the leg was alright – not really juicy and lacking flavour or seasoning, but inoffensive.

I showed the images to my regular accomplice who had decided to have the week off roast duty (at least one of us made a good decision this weekend) and she said the gravy looked like dirty bath water. I cannot better that – it was weakly flavoured, watery and added absolutely nothing to the roast. Two northerners at a table and neither of us were interested in drinking the remaining gravy from the boat.

And then it was time to go spend 6-7 hours in a brewery, trying not to get too drunk that I cannot see the game when it kicked off. Which I did achieve. Winner…of little.

And I Had A Shit Roast Dinner at Ffiona’s

Funnily enough, Ffiona’s felt like a restaurant with your mother’s (coming) home cooking.

Now, I know about as much about running restaurants as most people on social media know about managing football teams, but I’m going to suggest that Ffiona’s probably doesn’t need to do Sunday roasts. I know, this is Lord Gravy, patron saint of trying to get all pubs and restaurants, across the whole world, to serve Sunday roasts every day.

Apparently they do excellent chicken Kyiv’s, the brunch looked decent, and as part of the 2 courses for £34 deal, we had a rather good lemon cheesecake – a biscuit base with very delicate cream in the middle, the lemon flavouring having seeped throughout. So I do have evidence that they can do things well.

I only score on the roast dinners, alas, to keep the comparison fair between all pubs and restaurants. My accomplice, who joined me for the first time, scored it a 2.00 out of 10.

I’m a tiny bit less harsh – I did like the stuffing ball, after all. However, the roast potatoes were really dire, the chicken breast dry, the gravy watery and weak, cabbage terse – there was just so much to dislike.

My score is a 4.53 out of 10. You might think that generous, but it was edible – scores of below 4 tend to be at least partly inedible or poisonous. This was neither, but that is where the compliments end for this roast at Ffiona’s.

Roast dinner 300 next Sunday. I feel like I deserve a trip to Blacklock after the last two weeks (also 3 months since I’ve scored anywhere an 8+). Alas, logistics meant that I couldn’t book anywhere particularly special, but maybe I’ll be surprised. Positively surprised. It won’t be worse than the last two week’s roasts anyway.