There has been a market in Whitecross Street since the 17th century. Today the market has been reborn as a center for street food, including Indian, Asian, Mediterranean and traditional British menus
A medieval traveller writes:
To London where, with healthy appetite, I meet Sir John Falstaff. Where, say I, shall we find a goodly fare for the stomach on this day of cruel November winds? “Stride afoot with me” bids Sir John, adjusting his ample carriage. I forbear to remark upon Sir John’s shoes which are much fatigued by the burden of his gait. Thus do we go to the old gates of the city, thence to Whitecross Street. Many are the citizens in throng around purveyors of warming vitals, and flared are the nostrils of Sir John, so much are they a part of his appetites, and so flushed his fine beacon of a nose, which has been said to cast its beam from the river to the very cross atop St. Paul’s.
“There are uncommon aromas about the city” he says. “I do detect the
spices of far Araby…and others of the even farther Orient. ‘Tis a
change in the temper of the times…we are become hosts to many of exotic
origin.”
I perceive the truth of this, though with more joy than Sir John doth show.
Indeed, there are lentils of Italian device, which do exhale garlic, in the company of curries shining with the glint of turmeric, and various meats whose true provenance is hid by the art of their sauces. Chili, I do suspect, is oft the mask of offal.
Citizens younger than we by some measure are, I venture to Sir John, bolder than we in their tastes.
“’Tis so, my friend” says Sir John with some lamentation. "I have not the stomach for it now.”
Whereupon his countenance does lighten and his nostrils are suddenly alive with intent. There is a more familiar breath in the air.
A sign, chalked upon a board, doth say it well: “Hog roast, regular £4, large £5.”
Now, it is known in the city that Sir John’s girth sweepeth all aside as he advances upon the street. Beside him, I am but a sliver, loosely attached. And it is upon him now, the lust for hog, he has become like a man o’ war with a full gale in his sails.
Seeing him thus, weaker mortals concede passage, recognizing him, if not in name, as having the superior air and garments of a knight of the realm.
I am content myself to ask for the smaller slice of hog, but Sir John will have none of it, and orders two generously sliced portions, and proffering his £10 before I can protest.
“There can be no doubt” he says, lips moist between bites, “that the English hog is paramount.”
I do not quibble. No gentleman does quibble with Sir John. It is also true that no gentleman can dispose of a repast with such dispatch. I am but two bites advanced before he is done.
“What, pray, is the sense of this?” he asks, pointing to the menu board.
“theroastofsherwood.com.?”
The purveyor’s name is, indeed, The Roasts of Sherwood.
Sherwood Forest, we know, is a name of some notoriety, it being within the domain of a certain Sheriff of Nottingham, who is reviled in the London court for his transgressions of the civil compact by which the King doth earn his people’s affections.
“May I, fair fellow, inquire as to your name?” asks Sir John of the handsome, apron-clad carver of the meats.
“You may, Sir John” he says with conspiratorial ardour, to my surprise and Sir John’s. “My name is Hood. Robin Hood.”
The laugh that escapes Sir John is thunderous and echoes the length of Whitecross Street, sending into flight whole squadrons of pigeons and starlings .
“’Tis certain, then,” Sir John bellows, “…that the meat of a poacher is that much more satisfying in taste to those who revile the man thus robbed.”
Translation: There has been a market in Whitecross Street since the 17th century. Reflecting a gentrification of the neighborhood, the market has been reborn as a center for street food, including Indian, Asian, Mediterranean and traditional British menus, as well as specialty bakers and an Italian outlet for cheeses and salumi. The Roast of Sherwood does, indeed, serve roast hog in the style of a medieval banqueting hall, as well as beef stew, but has no connection, at least as far as I have been able to verify, with Robin Hood.
The market is open Thursdays and Fridays and attracts enthusiastic lines—best time to get there is soon after noon. Nearest Tube station is Barbican, the cultural center that includes a theatre, concert hall and cinemas as well as being, in its own right, a Corbusier-inspired architectural icon.
Apart from its market, Whitecross Street includes a long-enduring relic of real Cockney dining, the Cosy Fish Dinner and Supper bar, in reality a quintessential fish and chip shop, open Monday through Saturday, where the fry-up is to be doused generously with malt vinegar and salt. After that, retire to the nearby Trader, a pub with good English ales.
I perceive the truth of this, though with more joy than Sir John doth show.
Indeed, there are lentils of Italian device, which do exhale garlic, in the company of curries shining with the glint of turmeric, and various meats whose true provenance is hid by the art of their sauces. Chili, I do suspect, is oft the mask of offal.
Citizens younger than we by some measure are, I venture to Sir John, bolder than we in their tastes.
“’Tis so, my friend” says Sir John with some lamentation. "I have not the stomach for it now.”Whereupon his countenance does lighten and his nostrils are suddenly alive with intent. There is a more familiar breath in the air.
A sign, chalked upon a board, doth say it well: “Hog roast, regular £4, large £5.”
Now, it is known in the city that Sir John’s girth sweepeth all aside as he advances upon the street. Beside him, I am but a sliver, loosely attached. And it is upon him now, the lust for hog, he has become like a man o’ war with a full gale in his sails.
Seeing him thus, weaker mortals concede passage, recognizing him, if not in name, as having the superior air and garments of a knight of the realm.
I am content myself to ask for the smaller slice of hog, but Sir John will have none of it, and orders two generously sliced portions, and proffering his £10 before I can protest.
“There can be no doubt” he says, lips moist between bites, “that the English hog is paramount.”
I do not quibble. No gentleman does quibble with Sir John. It is also true that no gentleman can dispose of a repast with such dispatch. I am but two bites advanced before he is done.
“What, pray, is the sense of this?” he asks, pointing to the menu board.
“theroastofsherwood.com.?”
The purveyor’s name is, indeed, The Roasts of Sherwood.
Sherwood Forest, we know, is a name of some notoriety, it being within the domain of a certain Sheriff of Nottingham, who is reviled in the London court for his transgressions of the civil compact by which the King doth earn his people’s affections.
“May I, fair fellow, inquire as to your name?” asks Sir John of the handsome, apron-clad carver of the meats.
“You may, Sir John” he says with conspiratorial ardour, to my surprise and Sir John’s. “My name is Hood. Robin Hood.”
The laugh that escapes Sir John is thunderous and echoes the length of Whitecross Street, sending into flight whole squadrons of pigeons and starlings .
“’Tis certain, then,” Sir John bellows, “…that the meat of a poacher is that much more satisfying in taste to those who revile the man thus robbed.”
Translation: There has been a market in Whitecross Street since the 17th century. Reflecting a gentrification of the neighborhood, the market has been reborn as a center for street food, including Indian, Asian, Mediterranean and traditional British menus, as well as specialty bakers and an Italian outlet for cheeses and salumi. The Roast of Sherwood does, indeed, serve roast hog in the style of a medieval banqueting hall, as well as beef stew, but has no connection, at least as far as I have been able to verify, with Robin Hood.
The market is open Thursdays and Fridays and attracts enthusiastic lines—best time to get there is soon after noon. Nearest Tube station is Barbican, the cultural center that includes a theatre, concert hall and cinemas as well as being, in its own right, a Corbusier-inspired architectural icon.
Apart from its market, Whitecross Street includes a long-enduring relic of real Cockney dining, the Cosy Fish Dinner and Supper bar, in reality a quintessential fish and chip shop, open Monday through Saturday, where the fry-up is to be doused generously with malt vinegar and salt. After that, retire to the nearby Trader, a pub with good English ales.
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