Roast

Borough Market, SE1
Apparently, there’s a rumour going round that Borough Market is THE place to go for a bit of food love. Apparently, there’s stall upon stall of organic, fresh, free range, wild, and home-reared yumminess just cluttering up the place. There’s also a rumour going round that the restaurant, Roast, serves roasts. Well, who would’ve guessed?!

Places like Roast are Kryptonite to us critics. This is the kind of restaurant we usually try to avoid because our job is to lambast, shake fists and generally poke fun at lesser establishments that will probably not make it through the other side of the recession. Usually, there’s a catalogue of errors to laugh about, leaving no doubt in the mind of the reader that under no circumstances should they visit. Even if they’re drunk and it’s on the way home.

But with Roast, it’s a different story. It’s faultless. They only offer one dish and that’s roast joy, sprinkled with grated dreams and served on a bed of Ahhhhhhhhhhh. No, make that Ahhhhhhhhh to the power of Ahhhhhhhh.

This roast joy comes in a variety of shapes and sizes. There’s the modern decor which is as bright an over-achieving child and amplified by a beautiful portico that was abandoned by Covent Garden’s Floral Hall many years ago and brought to the market for only a quid.

Then there’s the unclenched weekend clientele who are far removed from the hubris of boorish City-dom during the working week. Roast is suitably for doe-eyed couples, sloshed-up birthday groups, girlie natter-thons and lazy families alike.

There’s also the view-of-St-Paul’s location, voyeuristically high above the throng of market activity, causing dinner conversations to veer wildly off into “Wow, look at the state of THAT nutter down there” every few sentences.

Added to that, there’s the high-ceiling’d, live jazz’d and child-friendly’d atmosphere keeping no track of time and generally maintaining everyone in a floating daze, welcomingly.

There’s the impeccable service which appears to be sickeningly 5-star, whichever angle you’re viewing it from.

There’s the booze which boasts a mighty tome of heaven’s treacle to devour, including the inescapable Chapel Down Bacchus Reserve (made in Kent, no less) which would probably cleanse and rejuvenate your urban weary skin if you decided to pour it over your face rather than do the sensible thing and drink it.

And then, of course, there’s the grub. Oh, the tender grub. The tender British grub. The tender British grub that is not afraid to roast any living being (if you arrive on a Monday, you can sample from the special ‘rare and native breed’ menu - Dodo? Diplidocus?). All ingredients are GB sourced, and most come directly from the market right downstairs. Starters are under strict portion control - the potted kippers are a good place to start - thus leaving room for the generous main event - the slow roasted goose leg with firm kale and adequately sized roast potatoes are complimented perfectly by the boozed-up poached pears (“Oh you do look lovely”, “Oh, that’s very kind of you to say so.”). Dessert is daring and is only avoidable if you’re able to avert your eyes as tempting glasses of rhubarb trifle or sultry Bakewell tarts are delivered to neighbouring tables.

It’s also got a cocktail bar, it’s own lift, Dyson Airblades to play with, windows as far as the eye can see, a great selection of British beers, a menu that is a bit dithering because it changes every week, and an owner who, in 2008, won Businessman of the Year and Restaurant Personality of the Year, plus claimed a spot in the Independent on Sunday’s Top 10 Restaurateurs in Britain list.

OK, OK, OK. Roast is amazing. There, I said it. Are you happy now?!