The Broadcaster, White City

Skip The Nonsense

And welcome back to Operation Save Big Lord Gravy Dog, after last week’s abomination of a roast dinner. I would link it to you but regular readers might take affront to seeing it yet again. To repair the damage, this Sunday I went to The Broadcaster in White City.

By quirk of random number generator, I was visiting the place that I very nearly booked for my birthday roast for the weekend after – so not only did The Broadcaster need to be better than the worst roast dinner for 5 years, it also had to be not quite as good as next Sunday’s roast – which should (should) be excellent.

It’s been another week where everyone has been asking the same question I was after THAT roast dinner:

For some people that is merely claiming to not know what a party is, definitely not pronouncing themselves as Big Dog and justifiably giving a knighthood to one of the real stars of government over the past couple of years – Gavin Williamson (for irregular readers there may be sarcasm involved in my writings on occasion).

For others, that meant continuing their life-long campaign for free movement of Eastern Europeans. Good job I appreciate fucking irony.

The deportation of Djokovic from Australia is no surprise.

The country is now an authoritarian state.

Freedom of choice is gone and the restrictions will last there for years. https://t.co/Nteqt1hVyE

— Nigel Farage (@Nigel_Farage) January 16, 2022

For the deported anti-vaxxer, it just meant catching covid, testing positive, carrying on with life and infecting people, followed by a short spell of lying because DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MANY IMPORTANT TROPHIES I’VE WON?

And for me? Well, it was just booking somewhere, anywhere, for a roast dinner.

That it ended being right next to the centre of evil was a bonus – yes that place where those nasty journalist types are both simultaneously trying to bring down the government in a left-wing plot and as part of a right-wing plot, allowing the government to get away with…parties (perhaps, murder also, but I wouldn’t want to judge that until the inquiry which I’m sure will be released around roast dinner 752).

These hilarious anti-vaxxer c*nts thinking they're storming the BBC , which hasn't been there for 8 years – they're basically trying to invade Soho House and some flats 😂😂 pic.twitter.com/8OkHW5b60a

— Andy Saunders (@mrasaunders) August 9, 2021

Broadcast My Ass

Strangely though, I couldn’t find the BBC. Maybe they’d moved out of the building after the anti-vaxxers had their peaceful protest outside which didn’t look at all menacing.

Or maybe they are thicko’s because the BBC moved out of there years ago (quickly double-checks all spelling and grammar).

Anyway, before I get defunded (joke – as if anyone would pay to read this shit), let’s talk roast dinners.

Given that I try not to have the same meat two weeks in a row, chicken was out of the question – though whether you class the dried garbage of last week as chicken is another matter.

I wanted pork, but didn’t want red cabbage – so that left me with sirloin of beef at £21.00. Which feels a very normal price for 2022. Prices are going up, aren’t they? I paid £1.40 for a sausage roll at Wenzel’s the other morning. I fear the price of beer once my 3-month detox (less birthday and holiday) is over.

I’m now kind of looking for a segue to tell you a little bit about the venue, but I’m just going to post this funny meme instead:

Kind of have some understanding now though – I once turned up to an after-party that didn’t have any drugs. Ahhhh back when I was fun. And still looking for a segue.

Broadcast My Manboobs

Yeah I get more desperate for headings every week. So the venue. Let me tell you about it – it seemed purpose built – I could be wrong and perhaps it was something converted into a bar, but more likely I’m right. At least on this point. I used to vote Tory. I voted for Theresa May. Do you miss her?

Anyway, plenty of wood panelling with slightly mismatched tables and chairs though all in the same kind of vibe. A really bright space filled with light, yet almost a feel of contemporary with arches and a fair whack of leafery.

We were in the main bar downstairs, but I believe there is at least one function room available to hire upstairs – and interestingly there is a table upstairs where you can dump your children to make yet more NHS rainbow pictures, whilst you k-hole in the toilets for 30 minutes after your post-meal line of ket.

The roast dinner, like The Broadcaster itself, also came with quite a bit of a spacious feeling (the cauliflower cheese we’d ordered separately, to share):

I was about to start writing about everything you cannot see that is hidden underneath the beef – but maybe I should mix it up.

So let’s start with the beef. It looks a lot rarer on the photograph than when I came to eat it – though it also looked that rare when it arrived so it isn’t just my dodgy photography. My accomplice is the beef expert and said it melted in your mouth, but I wouldn’t go that far.

It was nice, soft, good quality beef and the salt on the fat give it an edge. Maybe it was almost as good as very good.

The Yorkshire pudding was delightfully small – perhaps part of the reason why the plate looked a little lacking in food. Reasonably freshly made, reasonably soft. Yeah. Decent.

Next up the mini roast potatoes which got a bit of a slaughtering on Twitter but actually were good. Almost crispy on the outside and soft inside – they won’t win any awards, but were better than average for London.

Broadcast Roast Dinners Around The World

You know what the BBC needs? A television show about roast dinners around the world. Hosted by me, obviously. Once I’ve fixed my crack-addict teeth anyway. Though maybe I could wear a mask – I hear they are pretty cool.

I mean, this is pretty much why I work hard, so I can eventually fund my dreams of travelling the world, eating roast dinners. They do have roast dinners in Barbados, right?

Veg time. The half-shallot was really tasty – quite soft, otherwise I’m not sure what to say as it just tasted like a shallot.

There were small pieces of carrot; yellow, orange and purple – all roasted and pleasant, plus two mini parsnips which had perhaps a tad too much crunch to them for my preferences, but were still good.

The mustard cabbage caused a fair debate between myself and my accomplice – my accomplice loved it, I liked it though thought it had a bit too much of a tang for a roast dinner, and did slightly infect the gravy too. Said cabbage was of stringy variety.

The small dish of cauliflower cheese that we paid maybe £4.50 for, actually was excellent. You could taste the cheese! The breadcrumbs gave it some texture, with hints of thyme. Probably the highlight.

Finally, the gravy. It was a bit of a non-entity to me – I neither liked or disliked it. One of those slightly rich, slightly oily almost jus-like gravies. It definitely added something, but as I said, it was neither a positive or a negative to me.

Broadcast The Broadcaster

Well, I guess I’ve been saved.

And it wasn’t rip-roaringly excellent – it was good enough to be happy, but not so good that I regret not booking it for my birthday roast next weekend.

The only thing I wasn’t keen on was the mustard cabbage – and that wasn’t a lack of quality, it was just personal preference.

The roasties were good (though small), beef sirloin was tasty, the roasted vegetables good – and the cauliflower cheese was the star of the show.

I did go home hungry though. It wasn’t the smallest plate ever, but it was a little on the light side. Then again, I’d rather have a small portion of good food, than a larger portion of inedible dark shit.

Score from my accomplice was a generous 7.80, my score is a very healthy 7.53 out of 10.

It’s definitely worth a visit – plus it could be somewhere to escape the shopping hell of Westfield if you are dragged around (I’ve still never properly been to either Westfield, though have been to M&S in this one when drunk once) – plus has two outdoor areas for those warm, sunny days when they arrive.

I’ll be back next week. Birthday roast. No pressure.