Best of Britain: Sunday Roast

I recently posted a Facebook comment about something I'm going to miss when we leave the UK, and it inspired me to create a series of posts entitled "The Best of Britain." We are scheduled to leave this great country in December, so I should have enough time to procrastinate to death and post at least two more of these.

In my Facebook post I marveled at the efficiency of the postal service over here. (And all the Americans just thought, "She can't be serious." Oh, but I am.) I ordered something on Amazon.co.uk at 12:14 p.m. last Wednesday, and it arrived Thursday morning at 9 a.m.! It's almost crazy to waste the gas to drive 20-30 minutes away when you can pay a few pounds in shipping to have those baby-proofing items at your door the next morning. I love this place. And I love Amazon.co.uk. (I also love JJ-proof locks for my cabinets. That kid enjoys smashing our fine China.)

Sometimes, though, it pays to drive a little further for something spectacular. This week, I got a craving for a traditional, English Sunday roast. Despite the mountain of homework and work responsibilities he had to do this afternoon, Brian agreed that we should go to the Plough Inn in Icklingham for lunch. (Yet another reason I adore that man.)

Side note:  In case you're new to this blog, I'd like to let you know that I am now in my 5th month of pregnancy and nothing excites me more than food. Well, food and massages. Ooh! Massages while I eat! If only there was a Mexican restaurant with those really expensive massage recliners. We'd have to come up with a way to make them so they don't lean back too far, though. Indigestion, you know? I have to believe that the world's greatest inventions (like massage chairs and remote controls) were invented by pregnant women. Or possibly husbands of pregnant women who were sick of hearing about it.

But I digress...

Back to our Sunday roast.

We called to book a table as we always do at this particular pub because they refuse to let you in the door without one. No joke, we went there on a whim once, and the manager said to us, "Have you booked a table?" We looked around the empty pub as if to say, "Are you joking?" And he wasn't. He sent us on our way. So, since we know how the English love it when those pesky Americans follow the rules, we booked a table for 1 p.m.

In most pubs in Britain, you place your order at the bar before you're seated, and this is one of those traditional places. I ordered the beef roast, and Brian went for the chicken. After placing our order the manager said to us, "I could have guessed that." I suppose he's grown accustomed to our faces. Also, we're very predictable.

When our plates arrived, I could hear a choir of angels accompany the lovely waitress to our table. Out came the three generous slices of beef with a perfect amount of thick gravy. I also had a beautiful, homemade Yorkshire pudding on my plate and two roasted potatoes. Quick lesson here: Yorkshire pudding is the reason God invented gravy. They're puffed pastries filled with nothing. They're just puffed-up pastry with a dip in the center to hold - you guessed it - gravy. Isn't that the most glorious thing you've ever heard? (Remember, I'm pregnant.) The two, large roasted potatoes on my plate were perfectly browned and crisp - no doubt from the goose fat used to cook them. I've come to love goose fat for this reason.

Brian's plate was a beautiful presentation of half a roasted chicken. I'll stop here and clarify for the Americans who are accustomed to our hormonally-injected super-chickens in the States. This was half of an average-sized chicken browned to perfection and served with its own special gravy. Brian also had a small portion of dressing and roasted potatoes to accompany his meal.

Traditionally, Sunday roasts are served with meat, potatoes, and LOTS of vegetables. Today was no exception. They brought to the table an assortment of roasted carrots, parsnips, cabbage, broccoli, and potatoes. Yes, more potatoes! Brits love their potatoes.

I ate until I couldn't eat any more. I cleaned off my plate, most of Brian's and the family-sized portion of veggies. And as I contemplated an order of Sticky Toffee Pudding for dessert, I caught a glimpse of the smile on Brian's face as he watched me scarf down the rest of our feast. I knew exactly what he was thinking, too. "I can't wait until this baby is born and our lives no longer revolve around her next meal."

Well, me too, buddy!