Bumhole! Yes, you are correct in that I have absolutely no idea how to start this roast dinner review. Not that I am lacking for things to say – for example, one of the greatest shocks to mankind occurred today. I guess I shall just do what my SEO plugin tells me to do, and advise that I went to The Gipsy Queen in Kentish Town. Yep, right there, my keyword in the first paragraph. Or should I set my keyword to bumhole?
The last four roast dinners have been unspectacular – two poor, one average, one uninspiringly decent. When the random number generator picked out The Gipsy Queen in Kentish Town I was a bit nonplussed. A relatively recent addition to the to-do list, I think someone recommended it to me but I’ve no idea who.
Then I checked their website – and this is the photograph displayed on the menu page. Has nobody at the pub actually looked at that and thought, “yeah that looks shit”? It isn’t that difficult to upload a new photo to WordPress.
Still, I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be that shit, but I certainly had doubts in my mind as I walked to the venue, strolling through street after street of pretty Georgian terraces before turning the corner into your local council’s socialist dream estate. Why don’t Instagrammers photograph themselves outside council estates?
The Gipsy Queen is triangulated between Belsize Park, Kentish Town and Gospel Oak stations, which doesn’t explain at all why I walked from Finchley Road. Whatever way you get here, you’ll need to do a 10 minute walk which is alternatively known as a 220 mile March For Brexit by Nigel Farage, which isn’t even close to being 220 miles in the first place, of which the publicity-seeking, oxygen-stealing fuckwit will walk the first and last two minutes.
By the way, it’s review number 100 coming up soon – has anyone got any good ideas on how I can get some free publicity?
Nigel Farage is a wanker
Despite being on the edge of a council estate, I quite liked The Gipsy Queen upon arrival. I assume relatively recently modernised – it was clean and crisp yet kept it’s character without going into all the fairy light and teal-walled identikit nonsense. Small touches such as the Bass signs – omnipresent in my under-age drinking days up north (not that I’d touch the stuff, as I was cool and drank Foster’s – for those that are young, Foster’s used to be the drink in the late 90’s) illuminated a sense of heritage.
It wasn’t too busy inside but more tables were taken than not. The front of the pub was really spacious and bright – the clientele were a mix of not-too-trendy trendy types (because nobody is trendy if they say they are trendy) and a scattering of casual football fans. If you magnified the try-hardness it would fit into East London, but it felt right. The toilets stank of some weird chemical turd when I first used them, but I cannot hold it against them.
Despite only having had a slice of toast for breakfast, I still wasn’t that hungry when I arrived – mainly due to the mammoth feast at the charming Gallipoli Cafe in Angel the night before. Oh BIG NEWS. I have rediscovered my desire for boobs after my recent sobriety-induced asexualisation.
Yep, just £21.99 from Amazon – what a bargain.
I think I might buy a pair and put them inside my pillow. Though seriouslyish, its been months since I’ve fallen in love with a waitress like I did on Saturday night at Gallipoli. So much so that I even spent one minute swiping on Tinder today.
Enough about me. Do you want to hear about my friend that is affectionately known as Bumhole? Ah crap, clicking a fake boobs link on Amazon probably wasn’t the wisest idea, was it? That’s gonna follow me around the internet now. Ah fuck. Please tell me you did the same?
Hardcore, You Know The Score
OK. Let’s talk about roast dinners. Shall we have a musical accompaniment?
On the menu this week was BUMHOLE! Actually it wasn’t (well it probably was somewhere) but the actual printed menu included beef rib-eye, corn-fed chicken, slow-roasted pork belly or vegetarian wellington. All sounded really appealing – all priced at £16.50, except the beef at £17.50. PU PU PUNANI, PU PU PU PUNANI. I am no longer an under-age drinker.
It was a toss-up between the beef rib-eye and vegetarian wellington for me. Yeah, I’m being serious – I was actually thinking about ordering a vegetarian roast dinner for the first time ever. If you aren’t quite into the track then I recommend skipping to 2 minutes in, trust me – it is banging. As you may have worked out I’m feeling a little more out-there than normal, hence the crazy idea of maybe ordering the vegetarian Sunday roast.
PU PU PU PUNANI
I ordered the beef.
Rib-eye is my favourite cut of beef and I simply cannot turn it down. I will have a vegetarian roast dinner soon. Maybe that could be the idea for my publicity-seeking Sunday roast 100? If I had a vegan roast dinner, I’d have London’s vegan army all retweeting and liking it because if a vegan roast dinner has more likes on Instagram than a meat roast dinner, you are all gonna convert to Islam, sorry, I mean convert to veganism aren’t you? Crap, have I just compared Islam to veganism? So getting hate mail outta this. I also voted Tory.
Yep these headers have absolutely no point other than to make my SEO plugin happier.
Also I have no idea why I am using words like outta and gonna. Word.
Where am I heading to? Geddit? What do you get if you cross a paedo with a pirate? Before I tell you, how far did you get through the Punani track? Class, isn’t it?
WTF? My Instagram manager just advised me that she is going on holiday. Who is going to do my Instagram posts? Help! I’m not a millennium.
Dinner arrived. We’d waited a pleasant 15 or so minutes whilst I listened to my friend affectionately known as Bumhole and his tales from Tinder, whilst I sat wondering why nobody matches with me even though I state on my profile that I have a small nob. All women are looking for is a good sense of humour, no? The roast looked good – I was certainly hopeful. Yes, you see correctly – gravy on the plate. We asked for more, but all three of us are northern. Or we were many years ago, anyway.
Starting with the carrots and there were plenty of lengthy slices of softly roasted carrot – with a buttery taste, and generally very nice – so good that Bumhole actually thought that they were peppers.
The green beans were unspectacular but good. The spring greens and perhaps hints of cabbage were tasty – mopping up the flavour of the gravy, and generally enjoyable.
You cannot really see much on the photograph of how it was presented as the whole meal seems to be hidden by 3 rocket leaves (rocket on roast dinners is 100% fine by me), however you’d be impressed with how the roast potatoes looked, or at least you would be if I was half-decent at photography.
3 largish roast potatoes and yes – they were properly crispy on the outside, chuffed, possibly par-boiled and definitely roasted. They did have a hint of made earlier about them, but that aside, they were still very, very good.
Despite The Gipsy Queen having a pretty strong social media game (ie they follow me on Twitter), the Yorkshire pudding was made for eating, not displaying on Instagram. By that, I mean that it was a normal size and bloody excellent. Fresh, eggy and properly fluffy – this is how Yorkshire puddings should be – I’ve almost forgotten how good they should be. This is the standard London #FuckLargeYorkies
There’s nothing bad so far is there? Though I should tell you the punchline of the joke that I set earlier. Rrrrrrrr Kelly. A ha ha ha ha ha I like to laugh at my own jokes because the only time anyone ever laughs at me is when I drop my pants.
Was I going to regret not having the vegetarian wellington? A ha ha ha ha ha ha I am so fucking funny. BUMHOLE. Yes I’m still on my detox.
The beef was close to divine. Arguably a tad more medium than the proferred medium-rare but really flavoursome, it just had that distinctly beefy flavour, mixed with the gooey, juicy fat. Beef is my least favourite Sunday roast meat…except when it is rib-eye.
Bumhole had the chicken and this was moist and plump – really very impressive too.
So, onto the gravy. Not only was there enough on the plate, but it was thick too. It was how I would make it. It is the kind of gravy that I dream of…almost. Slightly rich in flavour, a rather hearty meat stock gravy that sexually caressed your meat instead of just pouring on like water. I’ve had a few better gravies, but this was up there – and in terms of consistency was the kind of gravy from my sexual fetishes.
A bit good, huh?
That was one seriously impressive roast dinner and just how roast dinners should be done, IMO – and it is only my opinion that counts BRUVVA.
The question is just how good was it? The only note of criticism was that the roast potatoes were a bit “done earlier” yet they were still very enjoyable. Highlights were plethorable (so gonna be the in the hottest new words of 2019 list at the end of the year) but particularly the gravy, beef and yorkie.
It’s certainly up there with the very best, yet I’m not willing to go as far as calling it “the best”, although calling something “the best” is perhaps not the compliment it once was given that some are describing Theresa May’s Brexit deal as the best deal available.
To be the best, there has to be wow moments – and moments of inspiration/imagination like the parsnip mash with mustard seeds at “the best” roast dinner, which is still (just), The George.
The Sunday roast at The Gipsy Queen was just reliably very, very good. There wasn’t a moment of culinary genius nor an eye-poppingly wow moment – though the beef, gravy and yorkie were all very close.
I’m scoring it a 8.68 out of 10 – which is a whoppingly high score for my standards, and at the time of writing – which is roast dinner number 95 in London – the third best roast dinner in London. My accomplices rated it a 9 and a 9.5.
This has to go on your to-do list. Thank you to the mystery person who recommended this to me.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing this coming Sunday. Nothing is planned – no venue, no time, no area, no dining partner. But I’ll be going somewhere.
Hardcore – you know the score – 8.68.