My mate Russell messaged me to ask where the best Sunday roast in Birmingham is.
“Sunday roasts are shit, Russell” I told him.
“Very helpful” he responded.
“Sorry”, I probably should have said had I cared.
But they are shit. I hate them almost as much as I hate the blind hope we attach to them by thinking that they will be anything other than shit, because they are almost always shit, save for the one great one and the two very good ones I have encountered in the forty-three years of my existence. They are shit for many reasons but mainly because the cooking mechanics means that it’s almost entirely done in the oven. And we can see they are shit. That the meat is overcooked, the roasties are pale, and the yorkshire pudding is flat because someone opened the oven door to take the meat out to rest. I see your over-boiled veg, pathetic cauliflower cheese, and I see your gravy that’s either too thick or too thin, and seriously, what the fuck is sweetcorn doing there you animal. I see all of this and I see you pretending on social media that it is yummy, or delicious, or banging. Fuck off and take your sweetcorn with you. And you need to sleep straight after eating one. Sunday roasts are the meal equivalent of ketamine, except Sunday roasts are far more effective at creating zombies out of the public and less fun. I should have typed all of the above to Russell but I didn’t have the energy to lift my fingers because I had just finished eating a Sunday roast.
But Sunday Services? That’s a different gravy all together. I am well aware that it sounds a bit churchy, or like that thing that Kanye did before he got mentally unwell and started behaving like a mentally unwell person does. A Sunday eating a menu from the southern states of cuckoo land appeals to me, because there is flavour there and the promise of fried chicken and a different gravy all together. Plus Matt and the team at Perro cook like absolute bastards. First up are drinks; a Ferrari (a mix of Campari and Fernet Branca), the corn sazerac, and a Jarrita cola for me, whilst Sophie has a jalapeno spritz which would be her drink of the summer had we not entered winter. There is pimento cheese; to you a mix of cream cheese, cheddar, mayo, spices, jalapenos, and witchcraft, blended and served with Ritz crackers. I imagine some might scoff at the cracker bit, but it works and it’s damn right delicious.
The main event arrives and I can already picture the sleep I’ll be having afterwards. Six huge pieces of fried chicken, nigh-on perfect fried chicken that tastes of actual chicken whilst having a skin full of salt-rich crunch and naughty thoughts. I cannot stress this enough, it is some of the best fried chicken I have ever eaten in my life. Death row stuff. All I want for Christmas is fried chicken stuff. There is a mash potato that has the hazelnut kiss of being blended with browned butter, worked into shape so that it holds the gravy that has the gentle punch of chicken fat running throughout. There are carrots that have been cooked with a glaze of honey and finished with honey butter, collard greens cooked in lard that almost make me like collard greens, a mac and cheese that’s heavy on both mustard and strong cheddar, and scone-like cornbread to mop up the juices. We’re not American, we have normal appetites and a sense of humour. We get nowhere close to finishing it, but I guess that is the point.
We get cobbler for dessert. Sophie’s never had cobbler before though she soon grasps that it’s basically a clumsily made crumble. The mixture of peach and cinnamon is lovely, but what stands out is the amount of vanilla in the custard. This is proper cooking with zero compromise on ingredients.
The bill is a lot less than expected due to this numbnut thinking it was £50 a head and not the £38 it actually was, meaning that lunch is £140 between two with a good amount to drink. I also had zero intentions of writing this up, putting it on the shelf with all the other one-off events, but whilst I was there they said they would probably do it every other Sunday. I went back to sleep on the sofa, not thinking of overcooked strips of topside beef, but of the most incredible fried chicken.
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