The Sunday roast is not a meal. It is a religion. It demands devotion, patience, and a willingness to undo the top button of your jeans before pudding. The protein is your headline act. Beef with horseradish. Lamb with mint. Pork with crackling so crisp it could cut glass. Chicken if you must, but you must. The roast potatoes are the real stars. Goose fat, fluffed edges, crisp shells. Anyone serving soft potatoes should be reported to the authorities. Yorkshire puddings should be tall, golden, and slightly hollow. They serve one purpose: gravy delivery. Anyone treating them as a side dish has misunderstood the assignment. Vegetables: carrots, parsnips, sprouts (yes, sprouts, get over it), red cabbage, cauliflower cheese. Gravy goes on everything. Including, controversially, the Yorkshires. Find a country pub with a real fire and a proper queue. Order. Eat slowly. Have a pint. Then nap on the drive home. This is the Sunday way.