Best Sunday Roasts.
Your guide to the best joints to meet for the best joint of meat!
Parakeet, Kentish Town
Live fire? Check.
Former Brat chef? Check.
A roast that’ll ruin you for all others? Absolutely.
At The Parakeet in Camden, Ben Allen brings his flame-fuelled flair to a gloriously bold Sunday roast. Step through the pub’s dark, moody bar, past a velvet curtain, and into a wood-panelled dining room where the real action happens — a semi-open kitchen glowing with live fire and culinary confidence.
The menu is a love letter to British produce at its seasonal best. Start with warm, spongy potato bread and smoked butter that practically evaporates on contact, oysters dressed in apple and chilli, or prawns bathing in garlicky brown butter. It’s seafood heaven, and you’re only getting started.
For mains, it’s all about choices: perfectly pink lamb, hay-smoked chicken, deeply flavoured roast beef, or a celeriac Wellington that gives meat a run for its money — all served with top-tier trimmings. Bonus points for the sea bream, charred and shareable. Don’t skip the leek gratin.
Finish with a zingy kalamansi sorbet if you’re feeling virtuous. Or surrender to the sticky toffee pudding and leave gloriously full and smug.
Come hungry. Leave heavier. No regrets.
Origin City, Smithfield
Tucked away in the heart of Smithfield, Origin City isn’t your average roast joint — it's where nose-to-tail meets farm-to-fork, all wrapped in stripped-back industrial chic. Think exposed brick, warm lighting, and the kind of easy buzz that makes a lazy Sunday feel a bit luxurious.
This is a roast for purists and adventurers alike. The menu shifts weekly with the seasons, but always revolves around their ethical, pasture-raised, organic Aberdeen Angus beef, Tamworth pork and Texel lamb — all served family-style, feast-style, and full-on delicious.
To start? Mushroom arancini with a cheeky tarragon mustard, plus oysters from the wild Scottish and northern coasts — zinged up with apple balsamic or a fiery Namjim. The catch of the day (a flaky bass, if you’re lucky) comes with confit tomato, braised fennel and a slick of black garlic ketchup you’ll want to bottle.
Then the main event lands: a trio of expertly cooked meats with roasties crisped in beef dripping, cauliflower cheese, proper Yorkies, fine beans with toasted almonds, and grilled tenderstem broccoli slicked with anchovy dressing. It’s indulgent. It’s unmissable. It’s meat-lover nirvana.
Wash it all down with a glass of Pinot Noir Sincera from a family-owned organic vineyard in Provence — all cherries, spice and earthy elegance.
Still standing? Go for the tangy mango mousse or the perfectly torched crème brûlée and float home in a food coma.
Dark Horse, Camden
Tucked inside the buzzing maze of Camden Market, The Dark Horse is Camden’s only proper British pub — and it wears the crown well. With its rustic-chic interiors, vintage lighting, and leather booths made for sinking into, this place brings serious Sunday energy without taking itself too seriously.
On the menu? Pub classics with polish. The Hereford beef rump is tender, blushing pink, and served with all the right bits — crisp roasties, golden Yorkies, seasonal veg, and homemade gravy worth writing poetry about. Not to be outdone, the Creedy Carver roast chicken (a half bird, no less) is juicy, golden-skinned and just begging to be drenched in that same glorious gravy.
Need a tipple? A whisky sour cuts through the richness beautifully, or go full summer mode with a zingy mojito.
Leave room for dessert — the chocolate & cherry trifle is a riot of textures and flavours (think mousse, sour compote, crumble, and clouds of cream), while the apple crumble is comfort food at its finest, all almond shortbread crunch and silky vanilla custard.
Smith’s Bar & Grill, Paddington
Tucked between Paddington Basin and Little Venice, Smith’s Bar & Restaurant is the kind of place where a Sunday roast turns into an all-afternoon affair — and nobody’s mad about it.
Just steps from Paddington Station, Smith’s serves up modern British and Euro charm in a stylish space with a buzzing bar, plush lounge, and a dreamy outdoor terrace perfect for sipping something bubbly in the sun.
Every Sunday from 12 to 9, they go all-in with the Ultimate Bottomless Roast — 90 glorious minutes of non-stop small plates, roasts, and indulgent desserts, washed down with your choice of bottomless red, white, fizz, or a spicy Bloody Mary (or all four, we won’t judge).
Start light(ish) with crisp calamari, a zesty avocado-spinach salad, or melon & silky San Daniele ham. Then buckle up: 35-day matured British picanha and 10-day lamb shank arrive piled high with all the good stuff — duck fat roasties, tenderstem broccoli, honeyed carrots, parsnips, and Yorkshire puds that could double as edible throw pillows.
Dessert? Oh yes. Churros with hazelnut chocolate sauce and zingy orange zest. Or a cheesecake dome so pretty it’s practically sculpture.
Dalloway Terrace, Bloomsbury
Hidden just off Bloomsbury’s literary spine, Dalloway Terrace is that impossibly photogenic nook where Londoners go to pretend they’re in a Nancy Meyers film. Named after Virginia herself, it’s a restaurant that has turned seasonal décor into an Olympic sport — the kind of place where autumn literally rains pumpkins. You half expect Keira Knightley to waft in wearing knitwear and heartbreak.
On a crisp Sunday, we settled in for their three-course roast, the sort of ritual that reminds you why God invented stretchy waistbands. Starters arrived like edible poetry: the Pumpkin & Pecorino Mafalde was a buttery, sage-scented tangle of ribbons, toasted hazelnuts crackling like applause for its silky richness. The Burrata—creamy, voluptuous, and indecently draped over grilled grapes and pumpkin dukka—was what I imagine Aphrodite might order if she fancied a light lunch.
Then came the main event: Roast Porchetta, a glorious swirl of herbed fat and crackle, its apple sauce as sweet and sharp as a Taylor Swift comeback. The Lamb Belly was all slow-cooked surrender, collapsing into pumpkin and goat’s curd like it had finally given up resisting happiness. The supporting cast—those thyme-and-garlic potatoes, honeyed carrots, and buttery greens—were so good they could have gone solo.
Desserts were unapologetic nostalgia: a Crème Brûlée that shattered with cinematic precision, and a Chocolate Fondant that oozed like a guilty secret. Washed down with a Riviera Twist (rosé spritz sunshine in a glass) and a Smiling Wolf (grapefruit bite and agave swagger), it was a Sunday well spent.
Dalloway Terrace isn’t just lunch—it’s therapy with better lighting. Perfect for gossip, lingering glances, or pretending life’s plot twist is all part of the charm.
