When you ask a Londoner where you can find the best Sunday roast, you’ll likely get a pause, a slight narrowing of the eyes, and a name you’ve never heard of. That reluctance is instructive. In Britain, the roast is not really a dish served in restaurants; rather, it is a household custom that occasionally leaves the house, and residents protect their favorites in the same manner that they do parking spots.
That quiet possessiveness is currently focused on the Golden Tooth on Green Lanes, close to Newington Green. Chef Matthew Scott and sommelier Charlie Carr opened the restaurant, which serves rolled pork loin under crackling that is so brittle it nearly breaks and grilled Yorkshire hogget chops streaked with mint sauce. It sounds strange until you taste one, but the roast potatoes, cooked in beef fat, fall somewhere between a chip and a jacket spud. On Sundays, locals arrive at noon and remain until the light goes out.
Blacklock in Soho is more difficult to conceal, but the crowd is obstinately local. Regulars have figured out the trick: show up when the doors open and get slotted in because reservations disappear weeks in advance. Even though the all-in roast is reasonably priced for central London and arrives in mounds, it still feels a little miraculous. It seems as though the establishment’s success stems from its refusal to act like a Soho restaurant.
The texture of the story changes as you head north. The vegetables at The Bridge Inn in Ratho, a canal-side village west of Edinburgh, are frequently from the walled garden at Ratho Hall, and the pork is from saddleback pigs raised a short walk from the kitchen. A gardener works full-time at the pub. That fact alone explains why the villagers reserve the same table each week, refusing to tell their friends who are visiting.
The Black Bull Inn in Frosterley, County Durham, is located thirty-nine steps from a historic railway platform, according to the owners. This place is known for its legendary gravy, which is made by simmering roasted bones, red wine, and herbs for twenty hours. The recipe is proudly displayed on the pub’s website, challenging anyone to make it at home. As you watch a plate of Glebe Farm beef arrive under that gravy, you can’t help but think that most London roasts are playing a part that this one just inhabits.
Belfast completes the group of five. Every Sunday, families flock to the candlelit upstairs room of The Barking Dog on Malone Road, which is spread across two Victorian houses and features a guest musician. A menu that changes every day is anchored by roast beef and chicken, which keeps the regulars interested. It is warm, boisterous, a little chaotic, and all by itself.
Rootedness—meat from the neighbor’s farm, paid gardeners, and recipes shared without fear—is what connects these locations more than technique. It remains to be seen if they can withstand the attention that lists such as this one attract. Presumably, the locals want you to stay at home.
