Hey baby, let me unbutton your dress, gently brush your hair back as I slide my hand up your thigh. Oh yeah, I am going to prorogue you all night long. Which for the purposes of my suitably autocratic SEO plugin means ” review of the roast dinner at Clutch in Shoreditch”. Oh BTW – one slightly NSFW image later, though you could post it on Facebook without getting banned.
Clutch in Shoreditch. That’s the ‘put keyword in heading’ box ticked already.
The random number generator picked Clutch in Shoreditch for this Sunday. Kind of a glorified chicken shop on a council estate straddling the boundary of Hoxton from Shoreditch with loads of guys from the Twat Farm walking past with pot plants that their new girlfriend/boyfriend has insisted they buy now they are no longer cool enough to take drugs. You know the conversation, “hey sugar-puff, now that we have a mortgage that takes up most of both of our salaries for the 25% shared ownership on this shit flat, maybe we need to buy some pot plants to stare at instead of a big bag of ket”. Don’t tell me you haven’t had that conversation. I haven’t had that conversation but I am so ugly that I was nearly put off from eating my roast in the reflective table today.
Clutch was a small restaurant inside, with a handful of those long group tables – with the aforementioned reflective glass so you can either check how ugly you are, or whether you still have white bits hanging around your nose. Which are mutually exclusive as only beautiful people do drugs. Except those that ask me for money on the tube…whoa…let’s not talk about the Met line. Seating came in the form of benches which in the tight space and being fat, were not especially easy to get my leg over – however they also came with super-comfortable long padded…I don’t know what they are…cushions?
Outside it looked a bit more like a converted Little Chef, replete with a barrage of picnic tables and lots of people from the Twat Farm walking past having bought a pot plant to stare at. Actually some hill-billy type sat opposite me on the tube the other day, eating Doritos which someone had left whilst wearing an “In the k hole” baseball cap.
With it being near Shoreditch, I though that my friend, Bumhole, would be a willing partner as it really wasn’t a place that you could hide by yourself whilst on a shared table, so I booked a table for two. Then he asked if his girlfriend, Chicken Boo, could join too. So I called to try to change the booking – no answer. No way of changing my booking online. I called again – no answer, though the message said to e-mail them. So I e-mailed them. No answer. I then called again a couple of times on the day – no answer.
Facing my fears
One of my worst fears in life, is turning up somewhere for a Sunday roast, and them not having any Sunday roasts. I appreciate that my fear is perhaps not as serious as, say, the fears of those living in war zones or those who believe Boris Johnson will still be Prime Minister
at Christmas on November 1st. But it is real. Would my accomplices up sticks to the nearest place on my to-do list just so I could write this blog?
I guess I could write loads of shit anyway. The end. Next week I’ll be going for a good roast dinner.
I haven’t finished. I’m still here. I’m building up the tension pretty well though, aren’t I? Getting ready to prorogue you later. Sexy.
Anyway, I walked in and went to the toilet for a wee. Then I washed my hands. Then I spoke to the waitress at the counter and advised that I’d booked a table. She asked where I’d like to sit, and I scanned the room looking at the edges of both tables were two people could sit, thinking to myself, “well I’d like to sit at the table that I booked”. Clearly reservations were imaginary.
Two people were about to leave and suggested that I sit there, so I ordered a beer and sat there waiting for my accomplices to arrive. And waiting for my beer to arrive. As I waited, I perused the menu – no roast dinners on the menu. Does WordPress have emojis?
By the way, my friend, Bumhole, asked if I would feature some more inter-racial lesbians, so here goes:
If you could swap places with either, which would you swap with? I’d swap with the white chick, but I’d wear black stockings and suspenders so it didn’t look like I was trying to gentrify through lingerie. I don’t have boobs so I wouldn’t need a bra. Well I could probably squeeze an A-cup in a bralet. Yeah I know what they are. The joys of software engineering in retail.
I know what a bralet is
15 minutes passed – no beer but my accomplices arrived. I was clucking unamused. Yes I shall do the sigh for you. I had to get it in there though.
Someone then came to take our order, I reminded them about my beer and asked if they did Sunday roasts – at which point both my beer and the Sunday roast menu arrived.
It was not an easy choice. It being a chicken shop – there was a choice of chicken, or chicken.
So the option was the Sunday Roast or Fried Chicken Roast. I was desperately wanting to have fried chicken on a roast dinner just to freak out the Sunday Roast Twitter “oh my god how can you put a tomato on a roast dinner” snowflakes.
But only the Sunday Roast came with stuffing and roast potatos (I prefer to spell it potatoes, but hey, education, education, education). What, more money for schools handily just before a possible election is that, Boris, you fucking cluck? Oh wait, he has just got a rescue dog? Ahhhh, bless. How sweet of him. Oh well, I forgive him for everything.
Ohhhhhhhh. But the Sunday Roast has chicken jus. And the Fried Chicken Roast has gravy. What to do?
I decided to ask the waiter if I could have the Sunday Roast but with gravy instead of jus. My accomplices matched my request though none of us were convinced that he understood our request. At least I had my beer.
15 to 20 minutes passed and it arrived. Look, I’m not more a photographer than Boris Johnson is a Prime Minister. Yes I happen to be taking photographs.
There was one carrot sliced vertically in half. Sweet – allegedly maple-glazed and I’m happy to go along with it. Soft, yeah that’ll do.
You can just about see some limited strands of spring greens on the left – they were enjoyable but more because of the jus.
And that was it for the vegetables. Really, there should be more. All the most important parts were in good supply – but that is definitely not enough in the way of vegetables.
Four roast potato cubes weren’t really roast potatoes. Perhaps they had been roasted though perhaps more likely deep fried – yet they were enjoyable to eat – especially in comparison to so many other places still serving roast potatoes made weeks ago (assumedly practising for the Brexit stockpiling which we must absolutely definitely not do because there is absolutely no need to – the government have said so and we can trust the government).
Well, I know what a bralet looks like anyway.
There was also a healthy-sized splodge of mashed potato. Quite creamy – not massively so, but a nice texture and went well with the gravy.
A good-sized portion of chicken was supplied, both breast and drumstick/thigh. This was good quality plump chicken – none of the stringy Nando’s crap covered up by their sauce – the thigh was particularly succulent and the breast was juicy and plump. And went very well in combination with the jus and gravy. And stuffing.
Said stuffing did become a tad tiring as it was a little dry despite soaking up plenty of the gravy…perhaps more because there was so much stuffing though. However, it tasted pretty divine and reminded me just how much I miss stuffing.
The gravy was banging. Or was it the jus? What I think happened was that we had jus on our plates, as this roast dinner was supposed to have – then we had the actual gravy in a gravy bowl. Erm. Insert chicken noise.
Yet the jus was really very tasty indeed – a reduced syrup that wasn’t watery, and tasted of chicken. The gravy was even better – easily one of the best gravies that I’ve had in a long time – thick and a tad lumpy, tasting of glorious chicken fat and just being ultra clucking sexy. I can only think of one better gravy this year and that was at the Little Blue Door. Yeah, even better than the gravy at Blacklock. I think.
I really enjoyed this.
When you see me write, “banging gravy”, I hope that your head perks up. Lots of potato – if not exactly proper roasties, tasty stuffing and good quality chicken. My only gripe about the food was a lack of vegetables…hardly a crime. Well unless you like blocking roads during your half-term holiday.
I’m scoring it an 8.10 out of 10. Which is pretty damn massive for me.
My accomplices scored it…eeeeeee…one of them scored it an 8.175. I cannot remember the other but she was impressed.
It might be just a tad too nontraditional for some – organisation and service was also a bit haphazard…incidentally they confirmed on Monday that I could change my booking for the day before from two to three.
But do go here for the gravy – if nothing else. Which you can have any day. With fried chicken. Man, I really need to get drunk in Shoreditch and come back here for chicken and gravy.
Next Sunday I’m finally going to a venue that the random number generator had picked twice in a row, and both times I was banned from going by my most regular accomplice. I’m now allowed to go as she lives near there and it is her birthday roast. Though I’ve just broke traditional and read the TripAdvisor reviews of it. At least I’m psychologically prepared.
Gosh, doesn’t proroguing seem a long time ago?