Yeah!Burger, The Brave Sir Robin

Christmas Is dead, you’re back home, trousers a little tighter, wallet a little lighter, eyes filled with resolutions shinning a little brighter. But why should the real joys of Christmas (the food) be ditched come the new year?

Hearing from my editor that a burger pop-up is offering a full roast on Sundays my blood levels began to rise. But I do it for you dear reader, for you (and the festive content of course).

The Brave Sir Robin stretches out lazily on the corner of Crouch Hill road, looking like an updated saloon bar thankfully more distressed wallpaper than western gloom. Placebo and The Verve pound in the background, and our DMed, silver-bobbed waitress Dora settles us in. From the depth of the space a blue lighted bar glows, well-stocked, something my eyes always are scanning for. They say in London you’re always at least 5 feet from a bar, did you know?

An extensive beer menu provides my dining compadre with a refreshing Keller pills, as I go for the real stuff. A sweet, and sinful espresso martini, an invigorating start.

Dora asks the question I feel should be mandatory in roast-on-roast situations. How much gravy do you want? We descend into a fun, yet vital discussion about the moister levels of the dish, our requirements are taken, and off her white bob swings.

Truffle fries, deep, dark with caramelised onions to offset the earthy mushroom taste are finger-licking. Long pigs in blankets tasting more like bratwurst are lifesavers on this damp afternoon, yet the grilled camembert bites sadly let us down.

A gorgeous burnt negroni resets the pallet and onwards to the main event, the crystal skull, the last chapter, the roast. We opt for turkey, and duck confit respectively, bedecked with all the trimmings. The meat itself on both is tender and juicy, gone are the dull thin slabs of turkey, we have plate ladened with chunks of enticingly succulent meat. The sprouts are roasted, avoiding the dreaded mushiness of boiled. The potatoes are perfection, the red cabbages a class act. The crowning glory for these dishes is the homemade Yorkshire puddings, rising like the Sydney opera house over the dark waters of the liberally dosed gravy.

Speaking of that brown gold, our requirements are perfectly followed, and our stuffed bodies can only just manage two bloody good blood orange margaritas as dessert (as sadly there isn’t one) before we reach that hallowed ground called: stuffed.

The atmosphere is light, but cool, the food heavy and hearty, nimbly dodging a lot of the pitfalls that the roast has fallen into historically. Pop along in the week to discover the enthusiastic Yeah!Burgers or like myself and my friend sink into a  warm bubbling ocean of deep, dark brown gravy on a most marvellous Sunday.