Venue: The Rosendale, 65 Rosendale Road, West Dulwich, SE21 8EZ
The Sunday dinner: Pork belly again. So what?
The price: 14.5. Five points lost.
Good evening. Mr Jus and I spent the week talking about the new bathroom again. The builders are already on site but we still have a lot of decisions to make, mainly around accessories.
If you’re with someone who thinks paying £110 for a soap dispenser isn’t abhorrent as a concept, let alone a reality, then you have a problem. Needless to say, I have a problem.But I still said it. Another thing I’ll say is that the new bathroom experience has really brought us closer. Closer to splitting up, that is. I’m just about ready to throw in the towel (£78).
Still, it’s important to put things into perspective. I’m more concerned that Mr Jus is shortly to be unmasked as The Dream Rapist. By me. I know it sounds far-fetched, but hear me out. Earlier this week, he dropped off to sleep and began his usual ritual of mostly incoherent mumbling. However, I made out one word, which he repeated, somewhat sinisterly. It went exactly like this:
He claims he can’t recall what he was dreaming about, but I’ve phoned the police anyway. He also sang a song the following morning, which I assume is called ‘Way Back When’ – I didn’t check. It started like this:
“Way back when…you used to make an effort,
Way back when… you were under 40,
Way back when you were funny…”
And it continued in a similar vein. I wasn’t impressed. The tune wasn’t catchy enough for starters.
I told him I liked it ‘way back when’ he had more hair.
“It’s like sleeping with fucking Cadfael,” I added, in a kind and supportive way, however nasty and aggressive it might sound when written down. I was so pleased with my retort that I’ve placed it in this week’s post and I’m also having it made into a framed cross-stitch to hang above the bed.
Thankfully, we were back on an even keel by Saturday morning, when he used one of his formerly broken ribs, which now juts out a bit, as a masturbatory aid. Not on himself – I’d have sold him to the nearest circus if he’d pulled that off – I was the lucky recipient. The experience both amused and aroused me. It really doesn’t take much to placate me. I suppose I liked that it was quite biblical and I still reached fruition, even while staring directly at his bald patch.
Right. I bet you’re all in the mood to talk about food now. What’s that? Too much information? You feel sick? Throw up, then grow up; we’ve got a meal to review.
Today we ventured to The Rosendale in West Dulwich. Here’s its Sunday dinner menu.
What immediately caught my eye was the great Yorkshire pudding swindle, with use of the word ‘roasties’ and ‘veggies’ coming a close second and third respectively. I’m used to getting a Yorkie, regardless of my chosen meat. And yes, it jars with my values slightly, because it’s not traditional to have one with chicken, lamb or pork. I know that. I’m not a complete Philistine. But I’d never look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m the sort who’ll happily loiter for up to three minutes for a free bit of cheese in a supermarket.
Here, however, they appear to have a little scam going. I could go without the pudding, but I was concerned there’d be a charge if I chose to have additional gravy. Which I did. Thankfully, the personable, polite waiter with the good hair told me that gravy was free. The best things in life are. If you trust what Janet Jackson says. And I’m not sure if I do. A sense of relief washed over me.
Look at the stupid size of the jug it was served in.
Which inevitably led to this mini-fiasco.
Two points removed. You’re only causing yourselves extra work, The Rosendale. I’m not Lilliputian. You’re mistaking me for The Dream Rapist. Here’s a reminder of the main course to save you scrolling back up, which is demonstrative of just how kind and thoughtful I am as a person.
It had five vegetables, guys. Not veggies. CARROT. PEA. PARSNIP. GREEN BEAN. RED CABBAGE. Roast potatoes? Three. Mash? Not a fucking sniff. Gravy? Really quite decent. Not thick enough, of course, but it had something. Sadly, the red cabbage got too friendly with the gravy, giving it an acidic air, and me a disappointed numbness. I mean, I like red cabbage as much as the next man, but not when it starts dicking with yur gravy. It’s also not the type of vegetable you’d have way back when. That’s all I want. A truly traditional roast dinner. Don’t even put rosemary on it. Keep it simple. Like mother used to make.
I’m starting to wonder what’s really so hard about mixing some gravy granules with meat juices and a bit of vegetable water, making it thick, not with cornflour or anything, just with more gravy granules, and knocking that out. Job done.
It was a real good effort though. The best so far. But I expect it to be decent at that price. In terms of ambience, it was rather noisy and contained a high proportion of people under the age of three, which is not what I want in a pub as it tends to make pulling harder. As in there aren’t many appropriately aged men, not that grooming kids takes longer.
Let’s end with a photo of my dog, Ripley, who accompanied us on this week’s jaunt, in the hope it’ll bring in a few likes from the animal lovers. Particulary as we didn’t give her anything from our plates, despite having this face. Poor little Rips.
Final score: 22/33
Oh and here’s a Twitter complaint update following last week’s meal at The Wood House. That SORRY thing flashes fluorescent colours, so they clearly don’t give a flying fuck whether I’m epileptic or not, but I appreciate, and will take up, Mike’s offer.