Prince Of Wales, Putney

Skip The Nonsense

Did you notice last week that scientists have finally managed to teleport a photon? This is not the Prince Of Wales.

Imagine the possibilities. You’ve had a very heavy weekend and the idea of 10 minutes on the Central Line is seemingly more torturous than listening to Nigel Mansell whilst waxing your legs, but you need a roast dinner – nothing else will suffice.

Yes, you will be able to teleport yourself to the pub. Either that or if you are concerned about the potential of recreating 1970’s shit movie, The Fly, you could have the roast dinner teleported to your table. On a plate.

Fuck Uber. Teleportation is the future.

And yes, I have checked Deliveroo and no I cannot get a roast dinner delivered to me. I even risked checking Uber Eats – is it just me or does everything on there look like plastic?

This being review number 20, I was intending on doing something special for it. Alas, I have vastly overspent so I decided to do something cheap and local. Then I got drunk, couldn’t find anywhere to book when drunk at 1am that was near enough my home that I could book so decided to plump for Putney, Prince Of Wales, to be exact. Refreshingly without the the. I cannot say I was amused about my decision when I awoke.

We sat outside upon arrival, with the view of this classic probably soon-to-be-listed office block, and accompanying traffic. Well, it was nearly sunny. The beer selection was very unimaginative, so much so that I briefly considered non-alcoholic options. I guess I could have had wine.

The pub itself was done with a touch of quality, some quite grand-looking chairs and a splashguard in the urinals – there was more thought put into the decoration than the limp-wristed beer selection.

Speaking of bo selections, beef, lamb and chicken were the offerings. I went for the cheapest option which was chicken at £15. I don’t recall the exact price of the lamb or beef, but they were around the £17 – £18 mark.

I then had quite the dilemma. Chorizo scotch eggs were on the starter menu. I don’t believe in starters before a roast dinner – a proper roast dinner should fill you up. Only for gluttony should there be a requirement for dessert, and there is no sensible reason to eat something prior to a roast dinner.

But I have even more of an obsession with chorizo than Spanish women. A sensible one was ordered for two very sensible people, which we shared. It was a worthwhile pursuit for sure. Anything with chorizo in gets me salivating – I would even consider eating peas if they had chorizo inside. Pea and chorizo sticks, anyone? Heaven and hell.

It took another 15 minutes or so for the roast dinners to arrive, with typically next to zero gravy. Surprise, surprise.

Starting, as is traditional, with the vegetables. A mixture of carrot, swede and parsnip batons. All quite soft, one assumes steamed – perhaps boiled. They were fine but utterly uninspiring.

The cabbage was a definite highlight. It sounds weird for cabbage to be a highlight, and it may just have been how the gravy interacted with it, but I really did enjoy the cabbage.

Three roast potatoes were supplied. They had been roasted, possibly even in goose fat – they had a nice, hearty taste to them. However they had been roasted as in past tense, and were more hard than crispy on the outside, and a little al dente in the middle. Not especially bad, but I didn’t feel like I had to go out and buy a postcard. Speaking of postcards, I told my parents when they went to Spain to hook me up with a hot Spanish woman if they ever had any intention of grandchildren (I’m busy – not ugly).

I’ve named her Pedrobelle Martinez-Fernández-González-Rodríguez-López-Sánchez-Pérez.

The top of the Yorkshire pudding was burnt. Not just dark, but actually tasting burnt. Once I had removed that, the rest was fine, but suffering from the general overcooking. Pretty yuck.

Thankfully the chicken from the Prince Of Wales was top-notch. It was a good-quality half a chicken, with plenty of succulent meat to stuff into my gob. A hint of garlic and a lesser hint of thyme gave it that added touch of elegance.

By the end, I was stuffed, barely able to move and screaming internally in desperation for a teleportation device.

So another mixed bag but overall a positive affair. Certainly more positive than Arthur Fowler’s affair. The Yorkshire pudding was distinctly crap by way of burntness, but the cabbage and chicken were top-notch. One of those roast dinners where I gave it a lower score the more I thought about it – it has balanced out now at a 7.04 out of 10.

The Prince Of Wales is worth a try if you are in the area, and if you get a better Yorkie than I did and are a bit more southern than me, you’d probably rate it higher. The only other place in Putney on my list is The Jolly Gardener’s – let me know if I should be adding any others.

So I trudged off back to spend the next half a day or so in bed, and watch South Africa continue to pummel us in rather England-of-old-style cricket. But not before I had a completely un-teleporty 13 minutes to wait for a Piccalilli line train. 13 minutes for a tube?

This coming Sunday looks like another south-west affair, again I’ll be hampered by TFL and a general lack of teleportation devices. Fulham could be the location.

See, I managed a whole roast dinner review without mentioning politics, drugs, sex, lesbians or gravy.

Oh shit the gravy. It was particularly tasty, seemingly with a hint of red wine in it. It was good but thin, and bordering on the jus-like, though it did get a little tiring towards the end. Maybe that’s why southerners always provide such small amounts of gravy? It did particularly compliment the cabbage.

Fellatio.