Around six months ago, I wrote a post about a weekend spent in England, including the feast that is my Dad’s Sunday Roast Lunch.
Last weekend I was back in England, and this time my family took me to Heston Blumenthal’s gastropub – The Hinds Head in Bray – for my birthday. The starter of smoked duck, quail’s egg, truffle mayonnaise, asparagus, artichoke and baby leaves was every bit as rich, delicate and spring-like as it sounds. The desserts I tried (a so-called “Quaking Pudding” whose recipe dates back to 1700, and a chocolate-hazelnut combo with an equally veteran history) were also quite as excellent as you would expect from the Blumenthal Empire.
But for my main course, I made an ordering error of schoolgirl proportions. It being Sunday, I decided to do the traditional thing and take the roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. When it came, the meat was cooked medium, and the Yorkshire pudding had been baked in a round, individual tin, giving it very crispy sides. The horseradish was mixed with cream until it had the texture of whipped butter, and the gravy had been passed through several sizes of sieve until it was smooth as a baby’s bottom. I have no doubt that a significant proportion of the British dining population thinks that this is exactly how roast beef should be served. But just like a local pasta dish to an Italian, or a cassoulet to a Frenchman from Toulouse, there’s only one way I like my roast beef, and that’s the way I’ve been eating it for as long as I’ve had teeth: rare, with very hot horseradish sauce and a big, doughy, shareable Yorkshire pudding that soaks up all the gravy (which of course has bits in it).
I like gastropubs a lot, and they’ve done much to reinvigorate the British food scene. But when it comes to old family favourites, Dad does it best. Whether in your family it’s your mum, your dad, your grandma or your uncle who is the champion chef, I’m sure you feel the same…
