Please note that due to Copyright Trolls, all images have been removed until I can manually review them, one by one, and ensure credit is appropriately displayed. So if the story suddenly makes no sense, then...well...soz.
This is a long process, so please bear with me...it will likely take until the end of 2024 until all images are reviewed and displayed correctly. Sigh.
And welcome to this momentous moment – a review of The Antelope in Belgravia. But most importantly after 263 roast dinner reviews I finally have a legitimate reason to make the theme all about Spanish women.
Hmmm Olga Carmona.
GET OFF THE FLOOR YOU ARE NOT FUCKING INJURED.
Urgh, Spanish women rolling around on a pitch and not in my bed.
Three times now I’ve had to arrange my roast dinner life around England being in finals.
First time was the ultra-stressful Euros final against Italy during that time where you were only allowed to drink sat down, and then only if you were wearing 127 masks simultaneously on the tube home.
We went to The Jugged Hare beforehand – banging gravy, and an ultra-banging hangover, then we headed to Notting Hill – like the only place we could find with a table. Megan’s. Megan’s to watch the football. Lol.
Are We Eloping?
Then last year, we went to The Crown in Islington for the world’s crustiest Yorkshire pudding, before missioning on the hottest Victoria line tube ever in history to Walthamstow, to watch history…and drink weird lime green shots.
This year, I decided to watch the final in Croydon. Why the fuck do I do these things to myself? Having to leave my house at 8:30am to go to the opposite side of the city to watch a game, when I could quite easily just stay in bed and…hmmm…Olga Carmona.
So why was I in The Antelope? Good question and there isn’t a good answer other than my train back from Croydon went to Victoria station, and it was a 15 minute walk from there. Also The Antelope is a Fuller’s pub so a chance of being half-decent but unlikely to be excellent – and after England losing the final of the rolling around competition, I didn’t especially want a good roast dinner. I just wanted a 7/10 kind of roast.
A different person, perhaps a roast dinner reviewer with a Spanish girlfriend might not have quite made it to The Antelope – as there was a place offering fragrance tapas on the way there. The Antelope offered just two fragrances – roast dinner, and stale urine – the latter only in the toilets, thankfully.
Described by the estate agent as having bags of character, The Antelope is an old and slightly worn pub, with a centre bar, and some fairly limited seating and tables around – though a room to the side which I’d completely walked past and only noticed on the way out.
It also has a few high tables and stools outside, which may have been tempting earlier in the year but given the plethora of wasps attacking me this week, including during a meeting I was presenting on Friday and hence had my video on whilst trying to usher a wasp away from me, didn’t endear me to the idea of al dente dining. Hang on…al fresco dining. Summer is over for me – wasps, congratulations on your victory.
The Telegraph Thinks You Should Elope
Did I mention that I’m going to Spain soon? No, not to live and probably not for a roast dinner either as I cannot seem to find anywhere near Valencia (please do tell me if you know of one). Yes I will 2pay for Bumble premium for a week. And maybe get AI to sort out my profile.
Yeah, I know, I should probably take the advice of The Telegraph and leave the country that they insist is falling apart, yet is absolutely nothing to do with Brexit, or anything they campaigned for, of course. Instead, I’m moving to Croydon. Well, The Telegraph haven’t yet said move to Croydon, so it is probably a good idea. Well, hopefully moving to Croydon if my solicitors ever fucking do anything.
The Antelope didn’t offer the most exciting menu – and this is in a world of a most predictable cuisine.
Sirloin of beer, or chicken, were the two options priced at £20.95 and £19.50 respectively. Believe it or not, I didn’t even look at the vegetarian offering. Though had my train from Croydon gone to London Bridge instead, then I may have gone to The Barrowboy & Banker, who do a spiced cauliflower wellington, which I might have even though about enough to mention.
I ordered the chicken for no real reason at all.
Hmmm, Olga Carmona, Can We Elope Together?
Well I guess we are starting with the carrots.
What on earth can I say this time? Hang on…
How to tackle the same subject repeatedly without getting stale and dull? I’m not getting stale, am I? Possibly I’m already stale. But maybe this is the answer to my (your?) woes…if anyone can help me write, Jayner is the man.
The carrots were fine. Roasted.
There was a mound of cabbage, almost sufficient for a Spanish football player to roll around and pretend to be injured in. It was a bit coarse and didn’t really taste of much – but if you like plenty of food, then I guess this is for you.
Two parsnips were an offer also, both a little too al fresco, and towards the raw side of the spectrum, but sufficiently edible and offering parsnippy nuttiness.
I Do Not Resemble An Antelope
Next up was the cauliflower cheese which was mushy, and also tasted of very little. You cannot see it on either photo, and you are not missing out either visually or gustatorily. Whoa check me English out, Jayner…gustatorily.
There were three roast potatoes which were broadly as bad as they look, but in different ways to usual – these were just soft and soggy, and tasted more like new potatoes, which I guess is preferable to being stale and hard. Well, at least I didn’t want a good roast dinner.
The Yorkshire pudding was at least ok – it wasn’t burnt, nor had it been made prior to Messi & Salt Bae winning the other World Cup. It was still too crispy, especially around the edge, though the bottom was fairly soft, if still not massively appealing.
It was a notably large piece of chicken – though also a notably large chunk of bone too. The breast itself was grandisimo (that’s actually a real Spanish word) and fairly soft – if again lacking much in the way of flavour or seasoning.
The little round of stuffing was acceptable – I neither like apricot or chestnut, so it was never going to win me over. The texture was a little tough too.
Finally, the gravy. Well, I actually really liked it. Surprise! It was quite thick, a proper gravy with some red wine influence – and plenty of it too. One of those roast-rescuing gravies. If this had been yacky red wine jus then I may have really slated this roast.
The Antelope, Belgravia
Well, this is the roast that flavour forgot. Either that or I have covid B.1258.95 and should have been wearing 126 masks over the weekend and have now infected 500 people in Shoreditch, 200 people in a cinema watching Barbie, 6,895 people on an exceptionally delayed Met line train and 3 people watching the football in Croydon. Oops. Oh well, not quite on Matt Hancock’s level.
Also – this is £8.50’s worth of pork belly from a car park in Shoreditch:
I didn’t want a good roast dinner, and I didn’t get one – though neither was it massively offensive, and the gravy was actually good.
The lack of flavour or seasoning really was the main issue – soggy roast potatoes and fairly raw parsnips didn’t help either.
A 6.45 out of 10 feels reasonable – though notably rescued by good gravy.
Right, I’m off to go cut a load of grass, put it on my bed and hope that it encourages some Spanish women to come and roll around and pretend to be injured in it.
Bank holiday weekend next weekend – and there is something special planned. One of those probably won’t be better than Blacklock but I cannot rule it out roasts. Oooh.
The Antelope, Belgravia
Station: Sloane Square
Tube Lines: Circle, District
Fare Zone: Zone 1
Loved & Loathed
Loved: The red wine gravy was really good - tasty, thick and plentiful.
Loathed: The lack of flavour or seasoning really was the main issue - soggy roast potatoes and fairly raw parsnips didn't help either.