I love exercise. Oh, I'm sorry, you may have misunderstood that: I don't like it when I do exercise. I like it when other people do exercise, and then demand I go for a massive pub lunch with them afterwards. That's why exercise is so great.
My partner and a couple of friends had run the Oxford Town and Gown (10,000 metres! Madness.) one Sunday morning, and so we embarked on a search for a pub which served lunch, on a Sunday, that wasn't a Sunday lunch. It's not that we object to a roast, but I've never had a good one whilst eating out and, anyway, I'm told that running that far requires something a bit more casual and face-stuffing than some thinly carved meat and a couple of veg. And so we hit on the Rusty Bicycle, sister of my beloved Rickety Press, and one of the nearest pubs to our house. Somehow, we rarely end up there: it's small and popular, so often difficult to get a seat, and as you can't book a table it's not tempting to trek there and then have to go somewhere else for our tea. We were surprised, then, to find it fairly empty on a Sunday lunchtime: are all the normal locals still sleeping off their hangovers at that time?
There was some serious menu consideration whilst they compared how sore their muscles were, but two of the runners went straight for the fish finger sandwiches, and couldn't be persuaded to choose something different, even when I pointed out how difficult it makes writing a review when two people order the same dish. This is nursery food, comforting but simple, but the Rusty Bike turned it into something sublime. There were homemade fish goujons, crisp (with panko breadcrumbs, perhaps?) outside and moist within. There were mushy peas, not the ubiquitous minted pea puree, actually within the sandwich. There was a leaf of crunchy little gem sat over a slick of chunky homemade tartare sauce. This was the Platonic fish finger sandwich, the one you'll be served in heaven.
It came (as any good fish finger sandwich should) with chips. Good chips, but not as good as the ones I had at The Rickety Press - why can't they import them?! These were fine, but the wave of disappointment was too much to bear.
The other runner chose the Angry Texan burger, a feast of protein perfect for post-race recovery, which Jacqui has raved about before. I would have chosen it too, but with two people already choosing the same dish, I had to make some sacrifice for my readers. I regretted it the instant the burger arrived: at least six inches high, this was heaving with all my favourite things: cheese, bacon, *pulled pork*... The only downside of this burger is that you do need a knife and fork to eat it: hands will not work here. Even the details are perfect: serving the gherkin on the side, rather than in the burger. That way people who don't like them can leave them out, and people who do like them can have a little nibble after each bite of burger, cleansing the palate perfectly.
I had heard rumours of a new pizza range (with witty names like "The Notorious P.I.G."), so had to choose one of those for my lunch. I was particularly intrigued to find them using a sourdough base: I'd been trying to make pizza with my sourdough starter for a few months with not much success, so wanted to see how the professionals managed it. It was, of course, very much better than my efforts, crisp and charred and just wilting in the centre under the toppings. I went for the mushroom option, with plenty of garlic oil and just a little parmesan to season, topped with lots of fresh rocket, and got one of the freshest tasting pizzas I've ever encountered. It was even perfectly sized (those with larger appetites will want to order a side with it), meaning I could crunch my way through every last bit of crust.
We finished with Ue coffees all round; there's an insanely tempting list of puddings (salted caramel slice: drool) but we were all left full from our mains. We left replete and happy and wondering why the hell we don't spend every Sunday doing this. The eating, of course, not the running. That would be silly.
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