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The Sunday roast is the work of God by way of James Sharp, inventor of the gas stove.
Churchgoing is what fixed weekly roast dinner in the British psyche. It’s a callback to when families wanted something celebratory waiting for them after their last amens. The rollout of gas stoves in 19th century then democratised the ritual. Reliable domestic ovens meant being able to cook hefty, low-intervention things even when the whole household was in church.
As Sunday became unmoored from its religious anchor, the roast migrated from homes to pubs, which was more exciting for promoters of family values and instant gravy than to the fooderati because, apart from location, not much changed. The basics remained meat or meat proxy, a pyramidical heap of root veg, pneumatic Yorkshire pudding and so much gravy it forms a meniscus at the plate’s edge.
Roast dinner is domestic. It’s a homely meal born of circumstance. Elevation tends to miss the point. That’s one reason to be curious about its emergence at Claridge’s, a London hotel that’s homely only for the children of exiled royals and oligarchs, which has introduced roast Sunday lunches to its restaurant this month for the first time.
Another reason is Daniel Humm. Claridge’s split last year with the New York-based chef after rejecting his ambition to turn its kitchen vegan. Now running the show is Simon Attridge, who lacks the celebrity of his predecessor but seems more willing to leave the wealthy in their comfort zones.
Roast beef (which had previously been on offer in Claridge’s Foyer) now gets A-list treatment in the main restaurant alongside rare-breed pork, fish or a veg pie. Three courses at £90 per head also buys numerous sides served family style to promote informality, albeit not too much. Truffle-stuffed chicken for two has rosemary branches stuck up the bum and is carved only after being brought to the table for Instagram duties. There’s no forgetting you’re in Mayfair.
Among London’s five-star hotels this is increasingly charted territory. The Savoy’s Gordon Ramsay-branded dining room does Sunday roasts. The Lanesborough, a megalith for old money, deploys its fleet of trolleys each Sunday for carving beef tableside. The Cut steakhouse at 45 Park Lane runs a Sunday service that includes what may be London’s most expensive nut roast (£65). In Westminster, Tom Kerridge at The Corinthia sends out roasts that match his reputation as an earthy type whose Michelin stars happened by accident. Occupying the louche end of the market is Twenty Two in Grosvenor Square, whose Sunday roasts are advertised as hangover cures.
All this plays on national nostalgia while owing at least something to a less celebrated institution, the carvery.
Mass catering was once a way for hotels to make use of their idled facilities, with meats cooked army style and accompaniments served buffet style. Economies of scale gave the customer lots of everything for not too much.
But carvery now survives in the capital only as mock-historical re-enactment, and in the suburbs in the kind of pubs Claridge’s guests might own but will rarely frequent. No one wants a Ritz-ified carvery, so for filling grand rooms at quiet times in labour-efficient ways the showpiece roast has become its unofficial successor.
The more-is-more approach is best expressed by Claridge’s desserts. Each table gets an oversized chocolate mousse with chocolate brownie bites and hot chocolate sauce. It’s as subtle as the mallet provided to break through its gold-dusted chocolate lid. On the side are panna cotta, lemon meringue tart, a cheese plate and an apple crumble. It’s an uncomplicated celebration of gluttony taken to comical extremes. The filing of this article was delayed by three hours because its author needed to lie down.
Sunday afternoon stupor is part of the tradition. By that measure, Claridge’s delivers. Its roast is equal to a good pub, which is good enough. Extras arrive in quantities that could induce a coma.
Whether it’s worth the money is a matter of priorities. The £20 Bloody Mary is not twice as good as one costing £10, but the person who brings it will be twice as personable. Value comes not from excess but from being cosseted by wealth, among brigades of staff who indulge your whims and laugh at your jokes. Should you choose, the sommelier will lead you to a basement cellar-cum-off licence and praise your taste in Bordeaux. That doesn’t happen at Harvester.
Like churches, luxury hotels are otherworldly. And though their conspicuous consumption might seem at odds with the ecclesiastical origins of a Sunday roast, a nation’s most homely of comforts does not seem wholly out of place where, for a price, everyone gets to feel dearly beloved.
Bryce Elder was a guest of Claridge’s Restaurant (claridges.co.uk)
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