Roast Dinners in London

Wherefore art thou wander’d this week, Lord Gravy? I did sup at The Anglesea Arms, nestled in fair Hammersmith.

I too did partake in a noble roast dinner, fit for kings and commoners alike.

But first, would you like to see how to behave when you are part of a cult?

Lo, wars be wicked, foul and grievous things—aye, till mine own false idol, Sir Donald of Trump, doth cry for battle, and then—oh! how noble the cause.

Aye, I doth employ this cunning sprite, ChatGPT by name, to render mine words in the tongue of the Bard. I mean, I went to school in Hull, thou spleeny hedge-born moldwarp. Do you expect someone from Hull to be able to write Shakespearean?

Though also I would like to clarify that eating and reviewing a roast dinner, somewhere different in London, every single Sunday that I am in London, absolutely does not quality as a cult.

Yeah.

Yeah.

Yeah.

Right Angle

So now that I’ve put the world to rights by sharing a few tweets by someone who was senile by the age of 21, it’s time to tackle the question most prodigious and grave.

How is the roast dinner at The Anglesea Arms, in Hammersmith? Art doth thou.

Firstly, it was a very warm day and ne’er hath a soul so thirsted — my very bones did cry out for beer. But…Brixton, urgh. Neck Oil…urgh. All manner of chemical lager crud. Urgh.

Why, in this sceptered isle, floweth such wretched swill?

It’s definitely a pub that hasn’t quite caught up with the times, but that doesn’t mean everything is as disagreeable as the wretched swill of Neck Oil, for the pub inside had a rather classic vibe to it, with dark wood-panelled walls being the main feature in the pub half – and it felt like a pub too. The restaurant area was lighter with more exposed brick vibes, though I only briefly looked at it.

And the staff seems to actually be really happy there. Like – unusually so. One young lady behind the bar was singing along to the music at one point, the young American lady waiting our table was also a proper hoot.

So, shit beer, but actually I was enjoying the vibe in what was apparently one of the first gastropubs in the 1990’s.

Golden Angle

Just two choices if you wanted a roast dinner (for why else would you be reading this foul detritus), rump of beef at £27.00 or confit pork belly at £25.00.

I asked our waitress for her recommendation, which instantly came back as “beef”, to which I decided to ignore and order the pork belly. “You’ll regret it”, was her reply.

Service was so good that if service hadn’t been added, the tip due would have been higher.

Upon delivery, I confirm that I wasn’t regretting my decision. Gosh, that’s actually quite a decent photograph for my standards, no?

Hang on a minute…is it 9 years since we all voted to be poorer?

Ahhh, always good to squeeze a bit of Brexit in. What fools these mortals be.

From Every Angle, See?

Anyway, carrots. They were roasted and kind of sweet tasting, though nothing obvious in terms of flavour. One accomplice thought she tasted garlic, the rest of us didn’t. Make of that what you will.

Then we had a small pile of spring greens which were quite buttery and pleasant – though nothing especially note-worthy.

We also had the miracle of mashed potato, which I did wonder whether this was because I had an Irish accomplice and I only ever seem to get mashed potato at Irish pubs…well…my accomplice was from Northern Ireland but he didn’t take offence (publicly) when I suggested he was from Ireland, think people from Northern Ireland are pretty chillaxed about that kind of thing nowadays, right?

The roast potatoes looked the part. Well, two of them did but actually they were mega crispy, like sat around for quite a while levels of crispy. I wanted to enjoy them, but they were a chore. That said – I’ve had much much worse.

Oh and the mashed potato was quite coarse, though generally decent.

Not Angling For a Yorkshire Pudding

No Yorkshire pudding for those that didn’t order the beef. It looked shit though, and many plates I saw being taken back to the kitchen seemed to have a large lump of uneaten burnt shit yorkie on it. A husk, a travesty, burnt and banished ere first bite.

The pork belly didn’t look shit though.

Yep, our delightful waitress was delightfully wrong here, for I did not regret ordering the pork belly one iota. The crackling was notably crispy but not too much so, the meat was really juicy, the fat was joyous. Truly, ‘twas a pork belly for the soul.

I did try a little of the beef rump, which was decent and thickly sliced. But not a patch on the pork belly.

Finally, the gravy was good. Quite thick and meaty, perhaps a red wine flavour to it though I wasn’t entirely sure on that.

The Anglesea Arms

Lo behold, peasants, what do we have here? For it is thy, Lord Gravy, that is proffering yet more roast dinner wisdom for your soul. I actually wrote this sentence.

So come hither, gentle reader, and hear the verdict of Lord Gravy’s latest banquet. I didn’t write that sentence.

I feel like there was more to be positive about than otherwise at The Anglesea Arms, especially the gravy and the pork belly – along with the delightful service.

Damn those roast potatoes which promised so much though yet were far too crispy. And that beer choice. Soooooo over pubs selling such a dull range of beer. Yes, I know it is probably a brewery tie, so really my scorn should be with the huge breweries, and believe me, it really is. And Brexit. My scorn is also still with Brexit.

Scores from the two accomplices that had the beef were a 7.20 and a 7.60, and the other pork belly accomplice was a 7.00.

My score is a 7.55 out of 10. It’s well worth a visit if you are in the area.

I’ll be back next week – another neighbourhood pub, though this one has a few craft beers on, I believe.

I do depart – look for me no more, thou crusty wart upon the rump of Brexit.