
Chef Thomas
A Proper Roast Chicken
A whole bird rubbed with butter, stuffed with lemon and thyme, roasted until the skin crackles and the kitchen smells like the kind of evening you want to sit down and stay in.
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A rib of beef roasted until the fat crisps and the kitchen smells like every good Sunday you can remember, with billowing Yorkshires, proper gravy, and horseradish sharp enough to make your eyes water.
There's a smell that belongs to Sunday. Not any particular one, but all of them. Beef fat rendering in a hot oven, thyme drying against the bone, the kitchen window fogged while the garden sits still and cold outside. It starts about forty minutes in, when the fat begins to crisp and the juices hit the bottom of the tin with a sound like rain on a window.
A Sunday roast asks you to be present. Not in a stressful way, but in the way of someone conducting a small, domestic orchestra. The beef needs its rest. The Yorkshires need their moment in a screaming hot oven. The gravy needs the pan juices and a wooden spoon and five minutes of your attention. When it all comes together, when the beef is pink and rested and the Yorkshires have risen into golden, crisp-edged clouds, there are few better feelings than carrying the whole lot to the table.
I don't make this every Sunday. That would wear the shine off it. But when the cold settles in properly and the afternoon light fades by three, the notebook gets opened to this page. A rib of beef. Yorkshires. Proper gravy. Horseradish sharp enough to clear your head. Right food, right evening.
Get the best beef you can. This matters more here than almost anywhere. A well-reared, properly hung rib will give you flavour that no amount of seasoning can manufacture. Talk to your butcher. Ask for bone-in, two bones' worth, and ask how long it's been hung. If they can't tell you, find someone who can.
Quantity
about 2kg (2 bones)
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
generous amount
Quantity
generous amount
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
140g
Quantity
4
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
pinch
Quantity
from the roasting tin
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
500ml
Quantity
a splash
Quantity
3 tablespoons
finely grated
Quantity
150ml
softly whipped
Quantity
a squeeze
Quantity
pinch
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| bone-in rib of beef | about 2kg (2 bones) |
| beef dripping or olive oil | 2 tablespoons |
| fine sea salt | generous amount |
| freshly ground black pepper | generous amount |
| English mustard powder (optional) | 1 teaspoon |
| fresh thyme | a few sprigs |
| plain flour (Yorkshire puddings) | 140g |
| large eggs (Yorkshire puddings) | 4 |
| whole milk (Yorkshire puddings) | 200ml |
| fine sea salt (Yorkshire puddings) | pinch |
| beef dripping (Yorkshire puddings) | from the roasting tin |
| plain flour (gravy) | 1 tablespoon |
| good beef stock (gravy) | 500ml |
| red wine (gravy) (optional) | a splash |
| fresh horseradishfinely grated | 3 tablespoons |
| double cream (horseradish)softly whipped | 150ml |
| lemon juice (horseradish) | a squeeze |
| fine sea salt (horseradish) | pinch |
Start with the batter, because it needs time to rest. Sift the flour into a large jug or mixing bowl and make a well in the centre. Crack in the eggs and add a pinch of salt. Pour in the milk gradually, whisking from the centre outwards, pulling the flour in as you go. You want a smooth batter the consistency of single cream, with no lumps at all. Give it a proper whisk, then set it aside for at least an hour. Two is better. The resting lets the flour absorb the liquid and the gluten relax, which means lighter, crispier puddings that rise with real conviction.
Peel the horseradish root and grate it finely. Work quickly, because it loses its punch once it's been sitting around. Fold the grated horseradish into the softly whipped cream with a squeeze of lemon juice and a pinch of salt. Taste it. It should make your eyes prickle and your nose clear. If it doesn't, add more. Cover and refrigerate until you need it.
Take the beef out of the fridge a good hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat in a hot oven seizes up. Room temperature meat relaxes into the heat and cooks more evenly. Rub it all over with the dripping or oil, then season generously with salt, pepper, and the mustard powder if you're using it. Tuck the thyme sprigs against the bones. Set the oven to 220C/200C fan. Place the beef in a roasting tin, bones down, fat up. Into the oven. After twenty minutes, when the fat has started to spit and take on colour and the kitchen is beginning to smell like a promise, turn the heat down to 170C/150C fan. Roast for about fifteen minutes per 500g for medium-rare, twenty for medium. For a 2kg joint, that means roughly forty-five minutes to an hour at the lower temperature after the initial blast. Press the meat with a finger: if it gives gently but springs back, with a softness in the centre, you're where you want to be.
This is not optional. Lift the beef from the roasting tin and transfer it to a warm board or plate. Cover it loosely with foil and leave it for at least thirty minutes. The meat will carry on cooking gently from its own residual heat. The juices, which have been driven to the centre by the oven's force, will redistribute through the whole joint. When you carve, they'll stay in the meat instead of flooding the board. While the beef rests, the oven is free for the Yorkshires. Don't touch the roasting tin. Don't wash it. You need everything in there for the gravy.
Turn the oven up to 230C/210C fan. Spoon a small amount of beef dripping from the roasting tin into each hole of a 12-hole muffin tin (or a 4-hole Yorkshire pudding tin if you want them large and dramatic). Just enough to generously coat the bottom of each. Slide the tin into the oven for five minutes until the fat is properly, fiercely hot and just beginning to smoke. Open the oven, pull the shelf out quickly, and pour the batter into each hole, filling them about halfway. It should sizzle and spit the moment it makes contact with the fat. That sound is everything. Push the shelf back in, close the door, and do not open it for twenty minutes. Not once. Not to check. Not to peek. They need constant, uninterrupted heat to rise. When they're done, they'll be puffed and golden and tall, slightly hollow in the centre, with edges that are deeply crisp and give way with a crack when you break them.
While the Yorkshires are in the oven, set the roasting tin over a medium heat on the hob. There will be dark, sticky bits clinging to the bottom. That's where all the flavour lives. Sprinkle in the flour and stir it into the fat and juices, scraping up everything from the base of the tin with a wooden spoon. Let it cook for a minute until it smells toasty and warm. Pour in the wine if you're using it and let it bubble away to almost nothing. Then add the stock gradually, stirring as you go, working out any lumps. Let it simmer for five to ten minutes until it reduces to something glossy and rich and the colour of dark mahogany. Season with salt and pepper. Taste it. Then taste it again. Strain it into a warm jug if you like a smooth gravy. I don't usually bother. A few bits of thyme and the odd caramelised scrap from the tin never hurt anyone.
Carve the beef against the grain into thick, generous slices. Don't be dainty about it. This isn't restaurant food arranged in a fan on a white plate. Pile the slices onto a warm serving dish or straight onto the board. Set the Yorkshires alongside, the gravy in its jug, the horseradish cream in a bowl with a spoon. Everything goes to the table at once and people help themselves. That's the whole point. We're only making dinner.
1 serving (about 425g)
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