Big Burly Directions on How to Make Yorkshire Pudding
If you go to England and miss a Sunday carvery, you will have missed an epicurean delight. Every visit, a carvery is at the top on our do-not-miss list. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, an assortment of veggies, and a gin & tonic: what more could you desire on a lazy Sunday afternoon?
On one long rolling bus trip we met a friendly cook and asked his opinion on the best restaurant in St. Ives for this unparalleled cuisine. We could tell that this burly hiker-type dude was a cook because during a conversation we had with him about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding he explained exactly how to make Yorkshire pudding.
Imagine British accents:
"The secret," says the burly hiker-type, "is hot fat."
"Mmm, yes," murmured the woman across the aisle, "that's right."
"You get your fat to almost the point of smoking, pour in your batter, pop it in the oven and then—this is critical—you don't open the oven, no matter how much you're tempted, for ten minutes."
"That's right," said the woman, nodding her head. "You can't open the oven."
"Of course," added Burly, "you've got to have the right cooking tin."
"Mmmm," added the woman. "Older is better. These new modern ones don't hold up nearly so well."
The woman then offers that the Sheawhat is the best place in town for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
"The Sheawhat?" I repeat. I sometimes find the Cornish dialect hard to understand.
"Sheaf of Wheat" offered burly cook. "That's the best place," he agrees with the woman. "But you'd better have reservations."
We spent the rest of the bus ride discussing every aspect of roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding. And there are many.
That night we found the Sheaf of Wheat, ate a light meal and drank copiously, and made reservations for the next day's carvery. The meal was available 12-3 and 6-8. We choose the later sitting so we'd have time to hike.
The next day after a cold wet trip to Land's End we return, mouths drooling. As I join the carvery line, I whisper to the nice chap in front of me. "Can we come back for more or should we take what we want now?" I'm thinking of our big American eat-all-you-want-oink-oink buffets.
"Take what you want now," he said, dumping a massive load of roasted potatoes on his plate. "I never heard of coming back for more, but sure you can fill your plate now."
By the time the nice chap went through the line there was not a centimeter of plate showing under his massive piles of foodstuff. So of course, we followed suit, us having hiked at Land's End in the rain you know, and then missed our bus from Penzance (in the rain) and now sitting here freezing cold and faced with the prospect of a long lumbering climb (in the rain) up to our rooms at the Castle Tregenna.
Reader, I emptied my plate. Perhaps I should be embarrassed. But the truth is, we then had dessert: strawberry cheesecake for Bob and Crème brûlée for me. I could have eaten two more Crème brûlée easily, not an eyelid batted. They were small and dainty-like and my appetite was big and burly-like.
On one long rolling bus trip we met a friendly cook and asked his opinion on the best restaurant in St. Ives for this unparalleled cuisine. We could tell that this burly hiker-type dude was a cook because during a conversation we had with him about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding he explained exactly how to make Yorkshire pudding.
Imagine British accents:
"The secret," says the burly hiker-type, "is hot fat."
"Mmm, yes," murmured the woman across the aisle, "that's right."
"You get your fat to almost the point of smoking, pour in your batter, pop it in the oven and then—this is critical—you don't open the oven, no matter how much you're tempted, for ten minutes."
"That's right," said the woman, nodding her head. "You can't open the oven."
"Of course," added Burly, "you've got to have the right cooking tin."
"Mmmm," added the woman. "Older is better. These new modern ones don't hold up nearly so well."
The woman then offers that the Sheawhat is the best place in town for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
"The Sheawhat?" I repeat. I sometimes find the Cornish dialect hard to understand.
"Sheaf of Wheat" offered burly cook. "That's the best place," he agrees with the woman. "But you'd better have reservations."
We spent the rest of the bus ride discussing every aspect of roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding. And there are many.
That night we found the Sheaf of Wheat, ate a light meal and drank copiously, and made reservations for the next day's carvery. The meal was available 12-3 and 6-8. We choose the later sitting so we'd have time to hike.
The next day after a cold wet trip to Land's End we return, mouths drooling. As I join the carvery line, I whisper to the nice chap in front of me. "Can we come back for more or should we take what we want now?" I'm thinking of our big American eat-all-you-want-oink-oink buffets.
"Take what you want now," he said, dumping a massive load of roasted potatoes on his plate. "I never heard of coming back for more, but sure you can fill your plate now."
By the time the nice chap went through the line there was not a centimeter of plate showing under his massive piles of foodstuff. So of course, we followed suit, us having hiked at Land's End in the rain you know, and then missed our bus from Penzance (in the rain) and now sitting here freezing cold and faced with the prospect of a long lumbering climb (in the rain) up to our rooms at the Castle Tregenna.
Reader, I emptied my plate. Perhaps I should be embarrassed. But the truth is, we then had dessert: strawberry cheesecake for Bob and Crème brûlée for me. I could have eaten two more Crème brûlée easily, not an eyelid batted. They were small and dainty-like and my appetite was big and burly-like.