“The feeling of friendship is like that of being comfortably filled with roast beef; love, like being enlivened with champagne.”

— Samuel Johnson

I always pride myself on being a good expat.

Whatever my adopted country may be at the time, I aim to become a student of its culture, soaking up the new traditions, the unique history, the little ways in which life takes place differently here. This is half the reason working abroad appeals to me so much, because it gives me the time to pick up on the nuances of a country so easy to miss when I’m just passing through.

But last Saturday night it was brought to my attention there was something I’d yet to do in England, despite living here twice.

My friend Courtney, a California native studying towards an MA in international relations here, sent me a text asking if I’d want to come along for Sunday roast the next day. It took but a few seconds to realize there was only one option: Of course!

Sunday roast: I’d seen plenty of signs hanging from pubs’ windows, advertising that they served the meal, and yet for whatever reason–maybe because I don’t eat out a lot, maybe because no one had yet to ask me to one–I’d never given the meal a go.

And so it was that on a brilliantly sunny Sunday afternoon, I set off to meet Courtney and one of her good friends, Scotney, at the Hart’s Boatyard, a restaurant set–as its name suggests–right on the river that puts the Thames in Kingston-upon-Thames.

It had been a long, grey weekend with enough rain to make me second-guess telling friends back home, “Nah, it doesn’t rain that much,” but I couldn’t have been happier to have an excuse to be out and about and enjoying the river so close to my flat. The inside of the restaurant itself was angular yet airy, with plenty of windows to feel like we were actually dining right on the Thames.

We started the meal off right with a white wine spritzer mixed, for a British touch, with a bit of elderflower liqueur–definitely one of my favorite distinctively British flavors.

I next discovered the beauty of ordering a Sunday roast: It is the ideal meal option for those plagued with indecision. I’d like to think most everyone has their own inherent meat preference: beef, chicken or veggie. With that taken care of, there’s little else to decide on: the roast potatoes, vegetables, and–the pièce de résistance–Yorkshire pudding are a given.

The whole meal first came about, or so Wikipedia suggests, when squires would give a meal of roast oxen to their surfs every Sunday to mark the end of the week and to thank them for their work. It caught on, apparently, especially when bakers were not allowed to bake on Sundays and their ovens could be used instead to roast the meat while families went to church.

Even Henri Misson notes in his 1719 Memoirs And Observations Of Travels Over England:

Urban myth or not, it is now an undeniable part of English culture, as is the Yorkshire pudding–which, it should be noted, is not sweet. It seems to serve the function that biscuits often do back home: they sop up the gravy. Big, fluffy balls of warm dough perfect for moving in a ring around your plate to collect all that extra sauce.

“Man, this feels like Thanksgiving,” Scotney remarked as we started in on the meal.

“Without the naps, though,” Courtney added.

And that’s perhaps the best kind of tradition for any expat:

One that’s particular to our new adopted country, and yet so wonderfully reminiscent of the one we call home.

2 Comments

  • Looks like an amazing day! Gotta love a good sunday roast, something that the Aussies adopted from the English and i’m so glad they did!

  • Matt and I have found another pub in Surbiton that does a great Sunday roast. You’ll have to check it out with us. Did you know the French refer to us English as Les Rosbifs? I’m surprised your French waiter didn’t mention it.

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