You know what I said last week about having friends that are a pain in the backside? Not quite sure why or how I have friends, especially given that I voted Tory, but that’s another story, in the glory, naked with my whorey. Yeah I could be a rapper, cos I is so dapper. Maybe that should be my next dream, once I am bored of being a model. Not that I am yet a model, but I have at least another 5 years life in me.
So, said friend, a delightful, beautiful character, invited me for her birthday meal. On a Sunday. Perfect – I can kill two birds with one stone, have a roast dinner and celebrate a dear friend’s birthday.
She invited me to Yadas, in Peckham. A Kurdish restaurant. Do they do roast dinners in Kurdistan? Sorry, I mean in Kurdish areas of Turkey, Syria, Iraq and Iran?
Of course they don’t do fucking roast dinners in Kurdistan. Yet another friend who does not understand the importance of my trying to discover the best and worst roast dinners in London. My typically Tory public service, roast dinner reviews for the many – I should probably register as a charity. Maybe I can get European Union funds?
Good time to remind you to share my page?
Alas, Yadas cancelled on us (second time this has happened). Yay, Yadas cancelled on us! I can go for a roast dinner after all. I feel like Cinderalla, if only I had some glitter high heels and a ball gown. And big tits. I did however make use of the unicorn headband found in the toilets.
I would show you a picture, but it has my ugly face on and I don’t want to scare you. Ladies, I am single, by the way. Hiiiiiiii.
So the back-up plan was to go to the Clockhouse in Peckham. Ahh Peckham, I always feel so at home there in their grimy bars and stickered toilets. Famous for Desmond the hairdresser and Victoria Beckham. Well it rhymes with Victoria Beckham.
Or maybe it was East Dulwich.
I’ve eaten here a couple of times before, though not for a couple of years. My memory of it was a slightly wanky gastropub affair, with occasionally questionable service, full of yummy-mummies and the occasional ket-head, with average food. Actually I think the first time I ate here it was good. Some scruffy-haired wannabe hippy did later ask me if I had any ‘k’ man after I blew my nose in the toilet. All I was doing was emptying snot into a handkerchief…whoa since when was there a ‘d’ in handkerchief?
My expectations for this roast dinner were low. But at least I wasn’t eating weird Kurdish food that every single review on every site gives it 5 stars. For why would I want that when I could have a likely distinctly average roast dinner.
It was a worrying start. We were late arriving, by around 1.5 hours from our original plan, and our greeter advised that there were only a few roasts left. I started to panic.
We were shown to the upstairs secret room behind the bookcase (this soooooo could be in shoreditch, darling), and told that there were 9 chicken roasts and 2 beef roasts left. There were 12 of us. I tried to order a roast straight away but our rather curt waitress wouldn’t allow it. Drinks order first, then food order later. She pointed out that they might run out of roasts if other tables ordered.
Which is why I wanted to reserve one! Another person who just does not understand my requirements.
Ahhh, speaking of frustration, special mention should go to TFL who have been absolutely shite this last week. You probably know this. I arrived at London Bridge, as per the instructions on the TFL app. It took me 15 minutes to work out how to get to London Bridge train station from London Bridge tube station, only to find out it was closed. I was directed to a bus stop – it didn’t exist (or perhaps I went the wrong way). So then I had the bright idea of getting back on the Jubilee line and getting the overground to Canada Water. But when I got to Canada Water, I found the overground closed. Again the advised bus stop for the rail replacement bus did not exist – I was about to walk for an hour until a bus to Peckham suddenly turned up.
The waitress arrived to take our orders – and of course, started at the opposite end of the table as me. When will I be treat with the importance I deserve?
I was starting to panic. I was getting ready to throw a “I’m not hungry anyway” strop but by time she got to me there were still 9 chicken and 2 beef roasts left. Panic over – at least until I next have to get a bus through south London.
Dinner arrived – I wasn’t counting how long it took but I guess around 15 minutes. I was marginally miffed to see bread sauce splurged around one side of the plate – I am (allegedly) an adult and ages ago acquired all appropriate abilities assisting appointments about appropriate additive adoption….ahhhhhhhhh alliteration. And of course, there was not enough gravy – so instantly I asked for more.
I started with some kind of giant leaf. This wasn’t the easiest to cut or chew, being quite tough and somewhat rubbery in texture. I don’t actually know what kind of leaf it was, it looked more like something you’d feed a rabbit (otherwise known in socialist Venezuela as your only meat in the next year and definitely not a pet). If I was being kind then I’d say it added colour to the plate.
As everything else was pretty much the same colour.
There appeared to be more than one type of squash involved, as some were orange, some yellow. Though they all looked like roast potatoes under the lighting conditions. The yellow ones were quite fruity – the orange tasted more like the traditional butternut squash, less sweet and nuttier. It was quite a decent mix.
So seeing as they looked almost exactly the same, lets move onto the roast potatoes. These had been roasted in goose fat, and had a luxurious taste to their outside. Sadly, they had also been roasted quite some time ago, and had that kind of tired feel to them. I’ve had far worse.
One of the roast potatoes was much softer and fluffier. Well, I thought it was until I put half of it in my mouth and realised that it was actually stuffing. I don’t think I’ve ever had bad stuffing, maybe weird stuffing but never bad. This was a very nice example of pork stuffing with a generous hint of herbs, one assumes more sage. A little crispy on the outside and nice and fluffy on the inside – just how roast potatoes should be. Just a thought – if everything is going to be the same colour, then maybe think about different shapes?
The chicken was annoyingly cut to make it look like there was more than there really was. It wasn’t exactly short on volume, though it is annoying this way as then leads to unexpected bone in mouth scenario, and I’m not talking about a Spanish lesbian unexpected my bone in mouth scenario. The chicken was also dry, as if it had been sat under heat lamps for quite some time. Which it probably had.
The Yorkshire pudding was suspiciously well-structured, with factory-solid walls and a pleasantly soft bottom. It did look as though it came out of a packet, but tasted much better, and worked well with the chicken.
Finally, the gravy. It was supposed to be a red wine gravy, though I didn’t detect it as such (a relief as red wine gravy often goes wrong). The consistency looked better in the extra gravy than what originally came on the plate, though that was so limited as to be near invisible. And we had to ask twice to actually receive any extra gravy. Decent enough.
Overall it wasn’t bad. It was about what I expected. The review would clearly have scored higher if I had turned up at midday rather than early evening, but I can only review what I am served. Nothing was particularly bad, but nothing was particularly great either. It gets a 6.96 out of 10.
So do you want to hear how my journey home went? The first bus went past me without stopping. The next bus was making good progress to Elephant & Castle, but then it had an emergency break, everyone went lunging forward and there was a thud. The bus didn’t go any further. I gave up after 5 minutes and walked off – not sure whether he hit something but clearly had decided that the bus wasn’t going any further – though had also decided not to bother telling anyone. I walked the remaining distance to Elephant & Castle station. Guess what? It was closed. Seemingly unscheduled. I then changed tube later at a tube station with a toilet. Of course, for the first time ever the toilet was closed.
Fascinating, eh? Shall I start a new blog about transport difficulties in London?
Next Sunday I’m going central and going early. Like, practically breakfast time. Or wake-up line of ketamine time for the scruffy-haired wannabe hippy.