So the Brits don't really do brunch, that wonderful institution so beloved by us New Yorkers. Is there a meal more perfect for a Sunday then brunch? Rich eggs and wild boar apple sausage, challah french toast with seasonal fruit compote, or wild mushroom omelettes with heirloom tomato salads all washed down with enough mimosas or bloody maries to take the edge off of Saturday night's revelry. I love brunch. And the British just don't do brunch.
But what they do have is pub roast. Instead of eggs and mimosas, you go out on Sunday afternoon to the local pub and have a roast with all the fixings. At the Dragon, one of my adoptive locals, changes their roast every week. This past Sunday you had a choice of roast leg of lamb with mint sauce or roast beef with horseradish sauce (oh and there's a nut loaf for you crazy vegetarians) served with roast potatoes, carrots, and turnips, sauteed cabbage, cheesey cauliflower, and a Yorkshire pudding. It may not be eggs benedict with home smoked salmon, but it's pretty freaking good.
You sit around in the pub all afternoon and eat this giant plate of meat and roast veg and then just drink all afternoon. Whereas brunch when you've finished eating and have a good buzz on, everyone then goes out for a stroll and window shops or just continues chatting. There's something to be said for the after brunch promenade, but there's also something really nice about just eating a huge meal and then everyone sitting around all afternoon drinking in a warm pub...which is why it's a good thing I joined a gym here.
And I'll admit, I'll pass on the bloody mary for a Guinness anytime.
