The best Sunday roast in South London - The Florence in Herne Hill

For many years quaint Herne Hill in south London was a social wasteland devoid of a strong identity. Was it a posh person's Brixton or a poor person's Dulwich? I know this because for the last ten years I've lived here. In the early noughties a revolution of sorts began with the launch of the revamped Commercial pub, quickly followed by the opening of a late night bar / club Escape, and then a remarkable revamp of the former Prince Regent on Dulwich Road.

However it was the opening of The Florence, also on Dulwich Road in 2008 that truly announced Herne Hill as a social destination. The combination of a great selection of wine and beers (including the Weasel brand brewed on the premises), a lateish licence, and Absolute radio friendly music has provided a magnetic pull to the local pretty young things, and midlife crisis oldsters looking to 'hang with the youth'. Friday and Saturday nights have become party nights that compare favorably with anything you might find in nearby Clapham, or Clapham wannabe aka East Dulwich. In fact in December I spent the best New Years Eve I have ever had in London at the Florence, which is testimony as to how well the place is working. But that's a story for another day. And in case you're wondering why I don't mention Dulwich ... lets just say if that's your idea of a night out, then this is not the blog site for you.

Today I wandered down to the Florence not for a party session but to take advantage of what is probably the best roast in South London. Goodness, some might even say the whole damned city.

And clearly I'm not the only person who thinks that, as upon arrival there was barely a table to spare. 'Quite quiet actually' informs the pretty young Australian who took our order. Well quiet comes in different guises then as with the front half of this massive pub overflowing with hungover hipsters, and the rear half suffering the new blight of good pubs that is pram congestion , the Northerner and I took up a perch near the large vat, that is responsible for the wonderful Weasel. So, what to drink? What else but a Bloody Mary to get things going while we decided which of the three roasts we would order. I went for chicken while the Northerner, for the third time in a row opted for beef. Why beef again? I enquire. You don't mess with a winning formula she replied. Touche.

Bloody Mary's are flowing and our roasts quickly follow. Arguably a little too quickly, but there are no complaints from the Northerner and I once they arrive. To say that the portions are massive is an understatement. But the half chicken resembles what I can only imagine an ostrich on a plate would look like with crisp roast skin and subtly seasoned. Meanwhile the Northerner's beef is cooked to perfection at just on the bloody side. Both meats are accompanied by a meaty, yeasty gravy, three pitch perfect roast potatoes, veg, and a Yorkshire pudding the size of a Mini Cooper.

The roasts are simply delicious - the Northerner, who is as discerning a roast connoisseur as you are ever likely to find in the fashion industry states unequivocally that they are the best she has experienced south of the Tees and something that more of our friends simply must experience. When by pleasant coincidence we do bump into a bunch of friends celebrating an upcoming 40th, we invite ourselves to their table. They are all similarly satisfied with their Sunday roasting and are settling into an afternoon of drinking. Did we stay around? Well it wouldn't be right for the Northerner and I to have left straight away but needless to say we exercised some discipline, and managed to leave before darkness kicked in.

No doubt there are many contenders for this coveted title. And as a criticism the oversized Yorkshire puddings were slightly chewy when we were looking for crispness. But those are mere quibbles. And the Bloody Mary's? Pretty damned fine actually. Perhaps not as spicy as I would have liked nor with the vodka kick my hungover body craved, but very palatable nevertheless. So lets declare the Florence the champion of the South and the social saviour of Herne Hill.