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A very serious investigation

I am sure there is no shortage of top roasts in London. This is the sort of confidence one has before opening a browser and discovering roughly four thousand “best Sunday lunch” lists, each written by someone who clearly has a favourite potato.

With a spare hour before lunch, I have decided to investigate the city’s finest Sunday meals. Pubs, restaurants, breweries: nowhere is safe. I will probably reserve a table for next weekend, which in London terms means I will be refreshing a booking page at 9am on a Monday like a man chasing Glastonbury tickets.

🍗 The Brief

First, the room. It must be welcoming. Ideally a pub, and ideally with an open fire, because nothing says “you are safe now” like a crackling log and a dog asleep on someone else’s coat. Sticky carpets are acceptable. Fluorescent lighting is not.

Then, the plate. Let us be clear about the non-negotiables:

• Roast potatoes. Perfect ones. Crisp enough to be heard from the next table, fluffy enough to make you forgive your ex.
• The meat. Lamb, beef or pork, cooked with care and not left to contemplate its mistakes under a heat lamp.
• A decent plant-based option. An actual dish with thought behind it, not a lone cauliflower sitting there like it lost a bet.

🍗 Why This Matters

A Sunday roast is more than lunch. It is self-care. Forget the face mask and the meditation app: three hours, a gravy boat and a second Yorkshire pudding will do more for your mental health than any wellness retreat, and it costs about the same as a facial.

So what will it be? A snug neighbourhood gastropub, most likely, the kind with mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu and a landlord who knows your name by the second visit.

The search continues, as it must, until aperitif time. Which, naturally, I have decided starts at noon on Sundays. Research is thirsty work.

Reports to follow. Gravy-stained notes available on request.