The Sunday Roast is a deliciously unique British culinary experience. For those of you who have known it your whole lives, you must know and feel a close and intimate bond with the dish itself. I know I've experienced the same feeling with my Dad's monthly langoustine platter. It's a special relationship. But for those of you who are becoming familiarised with the dish, it's a matter of time, you'll see. For me, the Sunday roast represents my experimentation with British food, but more importantly, my eagerness to embrace all things British - including, but not limited to, pubs, two-tiered busses, jacket potatoes, Marmite on toast, fish n' chips, tea and scones, James Bond, Wimbledon, the Queen, bowler hats, Wayne Rooney and last but not least, Yorkshire Pudding. To this day, I still ignore the properties, which make Yorkshire Pudding taste so fluffy and fantastic. But I will continue to test its value, on Sundays, as I continue my quest for London's zesty roasts.
Last Sunday was the first of my many zesty escapades down Sunday Roast lane. Camera in hand and a massive appetite to satiate, I walked into The Albion in Islington. The Albion has been a London Sunday Roast staple for many years and continues to thrive on the one divine British special and simple recipe for success- beer gardens and Sunday Roasts. What's not to like? This was my second visit to the Albion so I was therefore inclined to book a table a week in advance to get the time slot of my choice in the room of my choice. The pub's dining room is a relaxing place to lazy around with your mates in the cold but cozy winter days, while the beer garden is gorgeously green in the spring and summer days.
I ordered the Roast, without even taking a glimpse at the menu. I was not deceived and I was not mistaken. My memory had not failed me, this roast was by far the best one I'd tasted since my early days as a Londoner. I scarfed all of it down, scraped the plate to its very last crumb, to the point where my jeans cut into my belly like a sword. I looked around mischievously to check whether I was the only one with nothing left on her plate. Indeed I was- others were still chewing on crunchy potatoes dipped in gravy and cutting into smooth and red-tastic slices of beef. I was envious. I wish I had lingered a little bit more on my plate, tasted the flavours a little better, let the buttery potatoes and horseradish sauce melt on my tongue a little longer. But hey ho, all the more reason to try this again.
In hindsight, I can't stop thinking what a gorgeous meal that was. And I'm ready for a redo. Anytime, anywhere, you name it, zesties.
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