When you try to decide what you would like for dinner and someone suggests, “British”, the response usually consists of a laugh, a smirk, and a simple word with a sarcastic tone, “Really?” I mean, what can I say? The iconic Fish & Chips that is poorly made in Taylor Walker pubs has led British cuisine’s reputation right to the grave. However, living in London has made me realize that England is a place fully embedded with hidden gems, and a good traditional Sunday Roast has rocked me to my core along with my opinion towards British cuisine.
This Easter, I went on a hunt for the finest Sunday Roast in South Kensington. Admiral Cordington was my top candidate when I did my research. It was a little pub tucked away in a hidden mew just pass Fulham Road.
While I was waiting for my roast and sipping on my ale, the brimming fragrance of roasting meat, draft beer, wooden furniture, and pink daisy under the window continued enriching my sensory. As the smell kept intensifying, I saw my glorious mixed Sunday Roast being brought out from the kitchen.
The roast came with boiled vegetable, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and three beautiful slices of steak, pork, and chicken. The only thing I could possibly miss was roasted lamb (which I had for dinner that same day). The hot steam to the level softened the vegetable that I could bite them apart easily, but still experience a hint of crisp. The new potatoes were just as creamy, with a taste of natural sweetness, which lingered on the tip of my tongue as I swallowed.
The meat was excellent as well. Steak was cooked just right, tender and juicy. The ring of color went from pink red to burgundy brown, from center to side, as if you could almost witness the entire process of the roasting. Pork was also very soft and fattening under that brittle skin. Rid of the greasiness of fried cod, Sunday Roast presented only utopia in my eyes.
However, the most unique part of the meal was the Yorkshire pudding. Instead of looking soft and flat like most Yorkshire puddings I had had in the past, it appeared like a brown baseball. But once you bit through the crispy outside, it was empty in the center, but with the buttery pastry layered along the edge of the pudding.
As I enjoyed every bite under the spell of this Sunday Roast, I was convinced that my favorite Italian pastas could never compare. It is true that every type of cuisine has its own forte. Perhaps it is time for fish & chips to resign and let the Sunday Roast shine through, on the behalf of our lovely old England.