“I felt like I was floating above my dinner companions enjoying the high of pork meat that tastes like smoke and cream”
Sunday’s for me are often a Bloody Mary at 11, Gin and Tonic at midday and a bottle of Pinot Noir at about 1pm. Then I get out of bed and check my phone to see whose invited me to lunch. Pork is an ironic meat. Nothing calms the soul quite like pork and yet it’s a meat possessed with pain and suffering. Pigs are slaughtered in frenzied distress. Perhaps the calm I feel is relief that it was not me. Pigs are happy in mud, it’s all they know, of course pigs are happy in mud. If a pig knew a bath was an option I’m sure the pig would appreciate a bath. I had pork at the Duke of Cambridge in Battersea today and after a few slithers I felt like I was floating above my dinner companions enjoying the high of pork meat that tastes like smoke and cream. The Sunday roast is a trophy to English barbarism. A massacre on a plate. Remember guilt can enhance taste. I say if the carrots are good the rest of the roast will be too. The carrots had the consistency of pâté. You could smear them over rye and splash back a soft red. The broccoli had a hint of basil and was cooked al dente. It was a memorable roast. I snorted though a white napkin and thanked my dinner companions who’d declared this the best Sunday roast in London. Write to me and tell me what constitutes the best roast in the UK and where to find it. If you use the expression “all the trimmings” I’ll glaze over even if the rest of it’s biblical in epicness.