A Big Burly Biker Dude Explains How he Makes Yorkshire Pudding

Every Visit, a Carvery is at The Top
of Our Do-Not-Miss List

Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, an assortment of cooked veggies, a fizzy gin & tonic, a sweet dessert: what more could you desire on a lazy Sunday afternoon?

On one long rolling bus trip we met a friendly cook and later asked his opinion on the best restaurant in St. Ives for this unparalleled cuisine. Our goal was to indulge in a Carvery the next day—the first Sunday of our trip. 

​We could tell that this burly hiker-type dude was a cook because during our conversation about the best British carveries, he insisted on explaining exactly how to make Yorkshire pudding. 
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Rain lashed against the windows as we rattled through the English countryside. From the top deck of the double-decker, we listened—joining in where we could—as a lively discussion broke out between the passengers beside us, their British accents rising above the hum of the bus. 
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"The secret," said 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. Older is better. These new modern ones don't hold up nearly so well." 

The woman then suggested that the Sheawhat is the best place in St. Ives for a carvery.

"The Sheawhat?" I repeat. I sometimes find the Cornish dialect hard to understand.

"Sheaf of Wheat" offered burly cook. That's the best place. But you'd better have reservations."

We spent the rest of the bus ride discussing every aspect of roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding. Apparently there are many.

That night we found the Sheaf of Wheat, ate a light meal, 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.

Sunday carvery, a do-not-miss experience

The next day after a cold wet trip to Land's End, we return, mouths drooling.

As I joined the carvery line, I whispered to the nice chap in front of me. "Can we come back for more or should we take what we want now?" I was 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." 
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By the time the nice chap went through the line there was not a centimeter of plate showing under his massive piles of foodstuff. We of course followed suit, us having hiked Land's End in the rain, and missed our bus (in the rain), and were now standing here—cold and tired and wet— faced with the prospect of a long lumbering climb (in the rain) up the punishing hill to our room 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 eyelash batted. The desserts were small and dainty; but after a day on the path in the freezing Cornish rain, my appetite remained—much like our friend from the bus—resolutely big and burly.