The Greyhound, Kew – Sunday Roast ★★★★★
“…still a real pub understated; just nurtured from old-fashioned to modern sleek.”
I’d heard rumours. I’d intended to go a few weeks ago. I wish I had.
And herein lies the rub, as the great bard might say: can I give my first “Sunday Roast” five stars? Will this come back haunt me after a few more excursions?
I’m giving it a four. That’s for insurance: I think it’s probably a five.
This is in terms of roasts of course: I’m not saying it stands up to Le Manoir, Le Gavroche or Francescana. It’s not going to top The World’s 50 Best Restaurants: but I’m not sure I’ve had a better roast… in a pub anyway.
Roasts are notoriously difficult. Meat, potatoes, Yorkshires, veg and gravy all perfect, all at the same time.
The roasties need to be the last thing but open that door to check them and say ‘A very good afternoon, Sir’ to wilted puddings.
Timing is everything.
So how do you time a great roast for 120 covers within 8 hours? How do you get great roasties, risen yet moist puds, al dente veggies and rested meat all in synergy? How avoid soggy spuds, dry puddings, grey veg and tough meet?
And The Greyhound is a pub. Almost. It clearly was a pub and it keeps much of the old English charm that many ‘Gastro’s’ have seemingly forgone. Turn left over Kew Bridge and you find a real pub understated, but nurtured from old-fashioned to modern sleek.
We sit, excitedly, and watch a platter of a roast brushes past. It looks utterly superb.
There are only two of us and, hungry as we are, we decide that ordering the sharing board would be plain gluttony. It is a good thing our eyes were not bigger than our bellies on this occasion for we hardly left underfed.
We both order the slow roast pork, which is served with caramelized apple wedges, thyme Yorkshire pudding, vegetable bundle and homemade apple sauce.
It arrives and, as is often the case when confronted with a roast, the conversation ceases altogether and we set about it.
I pride myself on my roast; I feel it is something I can do better at home; they are tricky to do for eight, let alone eighty. Perhaps, just perhaps, not this time. It is simply great.
And I’ll leave it at that. I’ll not tell you about the fluffy, crunchy spuds, the grand Yorkshires or the glass like crackling about juicy tender belly, because frankly I think you should go and find out for yourself.
But the course of true love never did run smooth… so you’ll have to wait until Sunday.
Price: £30 + Ale.