This week’s roast dinner was chosen by the random number generator. I find this is an excellent approach of running various aspects of my life, particularly where there are plentiful and variable options. For example, when I have too many e-mails at work to answer, I sometimes choose which to answer by random number generator.
It means that I don’t ignore those really horrid, difficult e-mails – if the random number generator says I have to do it then I do it,
I did have a tentative arrangement to go for a roast with a young lady from work so I had a quick look at their website. The website is shocking – it looks like it was made by a 10-year old on meow-meow or whatever the youngsters take now. It was glue in my day. I remember being shown a shocking video at school on glue-sniffing. I hadn’t even heard of it as a drug before then. So of course I stole myself some Pritt Stick. Didn’t see the fuss though.
Anyway, not only was the website shocking but the pictures of the food didn’t look appealing. This for example:
Perhaps the blur was intentional?
Sadly, or perhaps thankfully, my potential accomplice had a hangover less bearable than mine so it was on the train by myself to Winnersh. I was going to overrule the random number generator had she not succumbed to Sunday service.
Upon arrival I was instantly struck by the televisions showing some rugby game – ITA vs FRA. I racked my brain to try to work out which teams they were. I assume FRA were Featherstone Rovers, I guess ITA is Ilkley Town but not sure. I don’t remember Ilkley Town having a rugby team. They also seemed to have more than 13 men on each team, though this could have been down to the fact that my hangover had not yet arrived. My point being that television and food are not compatible in a dining establishment.
The menu which I forgot to photograph was a Mother’s Day special. Beef or chicken. Two courses for £12.00 and a free glass of wine for the special lady. I was going to ask if I was wearing a dress, would I get a free glass of wine, but I decided against applying my sense of humour.
Not everyone gets my sense of humour. I was in John Lewis the other week, and went up to the vacuum cleaner salesmen and asked if he wanted me to throw the rubbish in my pocket on the floor so he could practice. He aggressively responded “What did you just say?”. I was like, “I’m only joking with you.”. “No what did you just say to me?”.
Sometimes I have to keep inside my head what I think is funny. I wish other people wouldn’t say everything that comes to their mind either. Especially on a Monday morning.
But sometimes though in life you do need to have a sense of humour.
Anyway, I ordered the beef and it arrived exactly 9 minutes later, whilst in the middle of reading an article on how gentrification of Washington is not necessarily a bad thing. Hug your hipster was the conclusion.
The carrots were cold. I had a few but I didn’t finish them. This is the first time on one of these reviews that I have left anything other than bone.
The green beans were comparable to eating plastic straws. I had a few but left the rest of them.
Given the shocking vegetables, clearly the worst vegetables that I have come across so far, perhaps ever in my life, I was curiously pleased to see that the roast potatoes were actually roasted.
About 5 hours beforehand.
Yes they were boiling hot and soggy, yet with a crispy outer edge.
One assumes the microwave found plenty of water molecules in the potato, and none in the vegetables.
Can you guess where this review is heading?
The Yorkshire pudding was a filled-in kind of sponge. There was no redeeming feature – the taste was exceptionally bland. Ooh we had a parsnip. Quite tasty but floppy.
I left the beef until last and I guess it was the best bit. Which is kind of like saying that the drugs at hospital are the best bit about being stabbed. Not that I have ever been stabbed, though I was threatened a few times growing up in Hull – including the first week at primary school, aged 5.
Bad was the beef – as bad as the linguistic quality that begins this paragraph. Far too well-cooked, with plenty of gristle and fat. It was crapo. I did mean to write the word ‘crap’ but I actually think crapo is more effective in this case, so I have not corrected it. I always think of new ideas for blogs, I think one day I am going to do a blog called “Tapas Or Crapas”, but given the shortage of tapas restaurants in the area it would probably need to be a UK-wide blog, or maybe for when I move to London like I have been threatening to do for the last 10 years.
And only after I have gone through my Spanish cook-book bought for my birthday by my aforementioned work friend. I have spent more time talking about me than the roast haven’t I?
I guess I should mention the gravy. It was probably Bisto. Lumpy Bisto.
So this was the worst roast dinner I have reviewed. But I really enjoyed it in a “I am really going to enjoy writing about this” kind of way. The whole dining experience actually got even more impressive, as the gentleman on the table next to me returned his starter for having mould on it. I am going to increase the score a fraction just for having the balls to serve mouldy bread. The woman cooking did come over and offer not to charge them for it.
I was silently in hysterics. I thought it was absolutely brilliant.
Thankfully my mum lives 220 miles away as she would not have been impressed with this “Mother’s Day Special”. It kind of reminds me of the time my grandma took the family out to this crappy, sorry, crapo chain pub for Christmas Day once and the dinner was atrocious. But it was so crapo that it was funny. My mother told me that I was not allowed to tell my grandma what I thought of it. All of my family were like “oh that was really nice, thanks ever so much”, despite leaving half of it on their plates.
I told her the truth. Thank you ever so much grandma, but it was awful. Can I cook next time? They actually let me cook the sprouts now.
I’m going to give it a 1.2 out of 10. Mainly for the mouldy bread treat and the really attractive young lady behind the bar as the food had absolutely no redeeming features. Inedible Reading where are you?
On the way home I popped into the Lyndhurst to watch my friend eat a far better roast dinner – which is on my list to re-review as the chef there seems to be doing wonders, and the original review isn’t really applicable now.
I’m going to finish this special review with the first (and possibly last) of a new musical feature.
I wonder if I can fit it into my next DJ set? Gosh that was a tenuous way to promote.
Please don’t go, don’t gooooooo, I’m begging you to stay. And eat gravay. Don’t gooooo owoah owoah. Just don’t go. Please don’t go. Don’t sniff glue. Just don’t, owooooooahn’t. Just don’t go. Or sniff glue.
Next Sunday I am going somewhere good.