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Toby Carvery (SL6)

So here goes my first Roast with the Most Post. My brainchild has come to fabulous fruition with the help of Davey C, now's my time to shine. And what better way than to start with the age old establishment, oozing with English heritage, the Toby Carvery. In this instance the one in Stafferton Lodge, Maidenhead. Who is this Toby? I hear you ask. I'll take a guess for they don't promote this on location. Toby is the king of the carvery; he defined the art of the all you can cram onto a mid-sized plate roast back in the 1700s. He knows what the people want; Entertainment: fruit machines and a claw based toy retrieval game. A friendly face: our waiter, Luis and the bar lady payed us diligent attention until Luis cracked under the pressure of 4 dessert orders and disappointed us all. Organisation: he recognises that his hungry crowd might all rush to the meaty carvery station in hordes, so cleverly controls with decadent velvet red rope. Choice: Toby recognises people like me who suffer from meat fomo so enables and empowers us to sample various cuts of beef, turkey, pork and gammon which are amusingly splayed out as a meat carpet base for you to soil with layers of do it yourself veg and accoutrements which are bland but bountiful. Bread sauce: DIY BS is of course a winner in my view. However in this case it was a thin grey bread broth with sad lumps, so room for improvement. Upgrades: for those inclined, Toby allows you to extend your plate to a regal king size. This allows for a larger meat carpet, with the bonus addition of 2 withered chipolatas for a reasonable, but in the scale of things quite substantial, £1.50. Thematic offerings: I for one will certainly be treating my loved ones to a Toby tart this Valentine's Day. Custard: dessert menu was full of all the sugary treats you can shake a stick at; ice cream feat. bits of aero, profiteroles, some sort of Yorkshire pudding madness and so on. Apple and rhubarb crumble was fine but the bottomless custard, that came in a definitely bottomed jug, was divine (big fan of custard, find out more @tartquest). Value: a 2 course feast for 5 people with drinks came in at a confounding £39.50, Luis also received a moderately generous tip of £4. This Toby knows his roasted onions and I would suggest you remove your preconceptions and give it a stab. You will probably only be mildly disappointed. Meat: 5/10 points for variety but no free range goodness going on here. Accompaniments: 6/10 beans, carrots, red cabbage, parsnips, yorkshire puddings, potatoes - roast obv but also mash, nice, cauliflower cheese and the unfairly frequently omitted swede. Lost points for flavour Value: 10/10 Really can't argue with £7.90 pp

The Hunter S (N1)

Rob

Dave

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Every now and then, when your life gets complicated and you bail on your mate's birthday bash, the only cure is to float the conciliatory promise of a pub roast at them.

This usually works, if you remember to book. I didn't, and it took a series of increasingly-sweaty Sunday morning phone calls before a friendly-sounding man confirmed that we were welcome to a roast at The Hunter S, N1 3HT for somewhere between a fiscally-pleasing £12 and £15. Never a man to look a gift roast in the mouth, I booked and headed north over the river to Dalston.

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I’ll be the first to admit that Streatham to Dalston is a long and torturous route by public transport. On my birthday party night I think that this dawned ever more clearly on Streatham-based friend Rob as the hour of his departure drew near, and I would not have blamed him in the least if he’d said “Mate. It’s a mission and I’m knackered”. Instead he opted for a confusing lie about a car crash that meant he couldn’t leave the house, which became ever less believable as the fiction grew. Somehow he bluffed it out like a pro, and offered a consolation roast by way of apology. This is the story of that roast.

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I had spent my life until this point unaware of the Hunter S. Hustling up to it on Southgate Road, I struggled to find anything to distinguish it from any other gentrified East End boozer, bar its unusual naming convention. Upon entering, though, it became apparent that the place's first USP is its decor. Approximately one metric fuck-tonne of taxidermy adorns the walls. Ibex heads, shark jaws, little weasels in jars - the Hunter S has it all. Oh, and the gents' is hung with hi-rent hetero softcore and the urinals are shaped like lips. Pint in hand, and reasonably secure that Dave had swallowed my previous night's white lie, we set about choosing food.

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By suggesting the Hunter S, as I have done with a couple of Tinder dates, I was immediately confirming my credentials as a pretty-cool-London-sort-of-a-guy-who-is-into-some-pretty-quirky-things, like stuffed animals. I knew that my parochial old chum Rob would absolutely lap this tat up, so we did the obligatory initial lap inspecting the wall mounted junk. I did think that Hunter himself would love this place, but on reflection it does feel like they’ve just attempted to appropriate his credibility by naming it after him, with absolutely zero further references. Porn on the toilet walls and stuffed goats that you bought from Spitalfields Taxidermy, does not a gonzo make.

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After making a spirited effort to appear interested in Dave's vaguely unsettling penchant for stuffed dead animals (and biting my tongue at his woeful lack of knowledge regarding Hunter Thompson), we sat down beneath the glass roof of the dining room and looked at the menu. I plumped, as have always done and will always do, for the pork belly. It was on the regular, non-roast menu and therefore came minus Yorkie, but had the added benefit of garlic and black pudding mash, which I was interested to get my hairy chops around.

As the only formal RWTM affiliate, I was committed to the Sundays-only roast menu. This was a bitter pill to swallow, as they had a marvellous looking pork belly on the normal one. However, I was in luck - Rob opted for the pork. Rob is a small stomached-dining companion' and "Are you going to eat that?" has always been a phrase which slips easily from my lips. I had a decent pile of salt marsh lamb instead, and it was a lovely glossy rare - but forgettable in flavour. I also ate a goodish amount of Rob's pork belly and mash, which delivered a glorious mess of liquid-silk fat, tender meat, and crackling that was nearly as vicious and spiky as a bag of kettle chips.

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From the moment our plates were placed betwixt us, Dave set about helping himself unbidden to a decent portion of my pork'n'sides. Aghast but following suit, I snatched a wee mouthful of his lamb (well-seasoned, slippery, melting - subtler than your gastropub-variety shank, but nothing to write on the Internet about) and half a roastie, which offered a brittle, golden crunch before giving way to fluffy and steaming innards. My compadre has extolled the virtue of my pork to the same tune I would've chosen, which leaves the veg. Long-stemmed brocolli, chantenay carrots and savoy were all present, al dente and fully decent, but it's the black pudding and garlic mash I'm here to evangelise. It came in a lustrous, vanilla-choc-chip quenelle, a butter-sheened, garlic-rammed, pudding-studded slug as tongue-coatingly immense as the creamy blubber that layered my meat.

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I have written about the meat, and am now obliged to write about all the other bits. Its probably a month since we went. I couldn't possibly be expected to remember the roast potatoes and whatever green and orange bits they gave me. I'm sure they were absolutely fine, and I certainly don't remember being disappointed by them. Commensurately, I am absolutely astonished by Rob's powers of recall on a subject as mundane as kale or whatever. He is right though - that mash was a modern marvel.

It matters not. The Hunter S was great - there are lots of nice things to look at, you can wee in a big porcelain mouth, and the food just about sneaks into the fancy end of the spectrum. Book ahead, as its absolutely full of bright young things by 2.

Balham Bowls Club (SW12)

Death lives in us. Everything we touch dies.

We are vampires, watching everything we cherish as it passes fleetingly during our millenia-long torment. Those who truly live are but pretty flowers; their existence a brief bauble of beautiful colour and creation which we instantly consume, judge and discard. We do not make and we do not nurture - we simply pass comment and leave, whilst the true artistes are smashed into chalkdust in the wake of our passing.

That is to say, shortly after our respective reviews, Mason & Taylor and The Prince Arthur both closed. They (The proverbial "they", not any actual people) call it The Curse of Roast With The Most. So instead of trying to find the Tumblr servers and cast them into the fiery depths from whence they came, we thought we'd let someone else write a roast review and see if that stops the rot. Our guest reviewer is the delightful Leanne Boyd who lives the wrong end of the river. Here are her thoughts on a jolly little spot in spiritual home of the yummy mummy, Balham. I edited it a bit without permission, but I'm sure she won't mind.

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This quirky pub is exactly what is says on the tin. The building is an old bowls club; the wood paneling, mismatched furniture and general shabbiness has that welcoming feeling with no airs and graces. It's says “Come on in you trendy buggers”.

But trendy buggers can't eat £7 hot dogs at secret cinema previews on every single Sunday afternoon. On the rare occasions they're not, they are more than welcome to go to The BBC. I've been here for a roast on a few occasions now and can certainly say that it is always a reliable choice. I always take my family when they invade London from 'The North', and they like it so much they don't even get mad at the lack of mucky bread here anymore. The menu changes regularly and gives plenty of variety. In fact, in addiction to regular features there is also a selection of alternative mains for that weird friend who doesn't jump at the chance of a hearty roast, so everyone is happy.

The starters sampled by our party were the baked Camembert and the cabbage and bacon soup. Bowls and Camembert skins were licked clean, which is enough of a review in itself. I hope they still washed them up.

This weekend we had 6 different roasts to choose from; chicken, duck, beef, turkey, lamb, and a vegetarian option (No idea what it was, why bother looking?).

Not ones to skimp on the portions, each plate arrives with a good helping of meat, a fat family of deliciously fluffy roast potatoes and seasonal veg (roasted carrots and parsnips this week), all smothered in hot, tasty gravy. Much to our delight, EVERYONE gets a whopper of a Yorkshire pudding that sits pride of place atop the entire plate. The entire thing is solidly delicious, nothing fancy but good quality food. Exactly what you need on a Sunday - as old Joey Stalin put it, quantity is its own form on quality.

Now, desserts.

Again there is a decent selection, alongside a cheese plate for those lacking in a sweet tooth. Luckily for me, my gang are a sharing bunch and so I have been lucky enough to sample a few of the BBC's offerings. The carrot cake, appropriately moist, is accompanied by a thick slather of cream cheese icing (Whilst on the subject, I'd like to propose that cream cheese icing become the universal default icing, instead of awful buttercream or normal icing.) The chocolate brownie is decadent and likely to satisfy any chocolate lovers you may know. It's served with the most delicious salted caramel ice cream too and so has been formally appointed as the gang's favourite. The sticky toffee pudding is, I'm pleased to report, sticky. Boring people can have a couple of disappointing scoops of ice cream, and sorbet is available for the worst kind of dullard.

However, it's not only the food that makes the place, it's the atmosphere in which you pick up your knife and fork too. Despite being obscenely busy because of Christmas we were not rushed, there was a nice gap between courses to allow us to chat and regain some stomach space. We were regularly attended to for drinks and the one time we had to wait (for the bill) the very polite waitress came over and asked permission to serve another table's food before she helped us. I liked her very much, and I'm sure my Mum would class her as "well brought up".

Once again we've all had another lovely afternoon spent at the BBC and so I can do nothing else but to heartily recommend this establishment to you. So wonderfully welcoming and unapologetically kitsch- it's exactly what Sunday's were made for!

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So now to wait for The Balham Bowls Club to close, or not. If we can pump out another review before it does, then I will declare the curse lifted and review again with impunity. Hooray.

The Prince Arthur (E8)

Today I was in Holborn and the Edgware Road, and I saw a restaurant in each with chalkboards proudly proclaiming them to serve the best burgers in London. One was a scumbag pub (I know it was a scumbag pub because the sign said "Juicy b***** burgers in London", and that doesn't even make sense. Only scumbags would run and patronise places that would tolerate nonsensical grammar), the other was a wanky corporate lunch place. Obviously neither has the best burgers in London. I bet the place which has the best burgers in London does not pronounce so on a chalkboard; because a) it doesn't need to, and b) it would be classy enough to recognise that such a statement would be in extremely poor taste.

The Prince Arthur makes no statement about either the absolute or relatively quality of its meat on its chalkboard out front. It does not need to. It says which animal was killed to make the meat, which bit of the animal was cut off, and which provincial market town the animal hung about in before it died. The Prince Arthur also lets you know that to eat the best bits of meat, you have to let it know beforehand, then turn up with a big gang of chums and all chuck in a purple note each. This is the statement that really lets you know that all their meat will be pretty nice.

Meats:

Unfortunately, you need 6 people to buy a whole baby pig, and only three of us went (inc. one vegetarian), so this review will deal exclusively with meat served in individual portions. I know - it’s a shame. I saw one big irregular, charred lump of beef for two go out, and it looked marvellous.

The pork belly was like a big hot wet slippery pork scratching on top, and it was amazing. In the eternal cost/benefit equation of fat vs nice, this is certainly one of the occasions where the nice definitely trumps the fat. I mean, nice trumps fat a lot, but it absolutely smashes it out of the park here.

The venison had a cajun spice rub on it. I think the rub was a little heavy-handed, but it was done with the best of intentions.

Accompaniments:

The potatoes were cooked in duck fat. Ducks are lovely little fellows, and their fat makes lovely little roasties. These were no exception, and they were so crispy as to be virtually impenetrable to gravy. A real treat.

Garlicky green beans and roasted carrots. Who cares about veg though? All one can say is that they were definitely there, and they were definitely what they were.

Gravy, apple sauce, redcurrant sauce. Bread sauce given free of charge on request. They can do no wrong in Gemma's eyes.

Yorkies for everyone! Good yorkies.

Cauliflower cheese which was all lovely and burnt on top, and had all spices in it. I drank the end of it straight from the ramekin, and I shall not apologise.

Mason and Taylor (E1)

Meats:

Pork belly stuffed with Christmas fruits. Receives a solid 7/10. In retrospect the stuffing managed to taste like Christmas pot pourri but also be delicious, which was a welcome surprise. Bit on the dry side and came with a weird skin which I liked. NO CRACKLING. Immediate downgrade to 6/10.

Whole partridge with bacon. Nice light meat but too much effort to pick all the nice bits off of the nasty bits. We were pleased to find shot in it, which means it did live a lovely life flying about in some woods before it was eaten for a Sunday feast. 5/10 for the hassle

Chicken with bread sauce. The guys really nailed it in Gemma's eyes by providing bread sauce. 8/10

Turkey and stuffing - It was too neatly carved, making it reminiscent of Bernard Matthews microwaveable roasts (Contradiction in terms?). It is a shame that the chef's steady hand and eye for neatness has become a burden instead of a boon, but such is life. 8/10 because it actually tasted bloody lovely.

Accompaniments:

Roast potatoes. Used the wrong potatoes but we'll let it go. Gemma disagrees but she knows little about potatoes. I on the other hand, am an expert.

Creamed leeks. Unusual inclusion. I may be a convert, I may not. I need more time to decide.

Mashed swede and carrots. Lovely and sweet and you could mush it onto your meat. I'm poet and I didn't even realise it (Joke courtesy of Danny from kerching)

Gravy. I didn't notice the flavour which says it all really. Zing.

Yorkies. Free with beef, 50p extra with anything else. Obviously you're going to upgrade. Everyone else loved 'em as they were nice I crispy, I missed the little bit of stodge in the bottom you normally get.

Atmosphere:

Very busy. A little too bare and stark to be able to really let your hangover luxuriate and burn itself off, but a great selection of beer. If you want your roast to turn into a silly Sunday then come here.

Service:

Friendly waiters who got rushed off their feet once it got busy - we had to wait an hour for our food. Very polite and helpful, but they promised Gemma extra bread sauce and then failed to deliver.

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