September 5, 2018 By bangkok7
Last July, Shenanigans quietly tested their Sunday Roast for a small group of surprised customers plus me and my friends Lucky and Mao Moo. When I told them I’d be writing an article on it Lucky said, “How will you stretch this into a whole blog? It’s a roast. End of story.” I took that as a challenge, and so produced the following diatribe for your enjoyment. Here’s my review of the brand new Shenanigans Sunday Roast:
The alarm goes off at 9 am, rousing me from a restless slumber rife with dreams of past giks,lost lovers, and plates full of hot food. A stiff black coffee and some answered emails later, the hunger pangs began their slow rumble, like a low-hanging storm across an empty desert. I glance at the time. 10:15. The night before, I’d run into John from Shenanigans onPong who leaned in close to reveal a small secret for my ears only—test roast at noon tomorrow…..don’t tell anyone. See you then. I’d tried to put it out of my mind at that moment, but if I’m honest, I thought about it peripherally from then on, even as I seat-danced next to lovely PYT’s in Kings, Glamour, Pink Panther, Black Pagoda, Thigh, Strip, and even a quick glass of Bordeaux at The Steakhouse Co. No amount of distraction could put me at ease. The thought of steaming hot meats freshly sliced, gravy, fixins, food I hadn’t had since last Christmas, was almost too much to bear.
A few more emails……some youtube videos (Ironman pitch meeting, Norm MacDonald’s appearances on Letterman, and current views on my own channel) and another furtive look at the clock. 10:35. Then a lady messages and says she’s stopping by at 11:30. Thank God, something to take my mind off of food. I shower, throw my dirty laundry in the closet, clean the toilet and straighten the bed. She comes, then goes. It’s 11:50. Time to head to Shenanigans.
There are no motorbike taxis. I have to hoof it. The sun is blazing. Eight long, sweaty minutes later I’m climbing the stairs of the terrace, wai’d by the wait staff and then I’m inside, my eyes adjusting, and there, at the back shimmering under the light of the heat lamps I see the roast beef, lamb, and ham (and chicken, but come on, I’m no amateur). Someone points to Lucky who is reading the paper on the terrace. I retrieve him, explaining that we need to be closer to the food. We get a high top right next to the start of the buffet line. Mao Moo is running late, so after some tense moments we get the go-ahead and decide to start without him. I pass up the prawn cocktail, soup, and salad—no time, no time, gotta get that meat in my belly. I’m the first one in the queue. The chef slices off end pieces of everything for me. That’s the bad part of the beef and lamb, but it’s the best part of the ham, which is gleaming with mustard glaze. Mash, Irish stuffing, carrots, Brussels sprouts, pig in a bacon blanket, cauliflower cheese, peas, gravy. I’m faint with hunger.
Back at the table, I try the mash and stuffing first. A final tease before the meat extravaganza. Both taste home-made. Seven approves. Then, just to prolong the torture, a bite of Brussels sprout. Also good. Mao Moo says they’re too done, but I’m cool with it. Then it’s on to the heart of the matter—first a bite of beef. Tender, pink juicy, lovely. Then the lamb—equally so, and delicious. My favorite so far—and so briefly. For then there was ham. The ham, oh God, the ham. Like finding nirvana. It’s positively electric with flavor. The glaze is like crack—I’m immediately addicted. In fact, even after I’m stuffed later on, I will go back for 3rds and 4ths of the ham. I even entertain putting some in a pocket of my cargo shorts to that I can lovingly caress it, give it small affectionate kisses, and also snack on it later. I decide that would be embarrassing and so I don’t do it. As I write this, though, I’m wishing I had. I need a fix.
Following the religious experience that was the ham, the rest goes down smoothly, it’s spoonful after spoonful, chewswallowrepeat, but the damage is already done. The ham, the ham, the holy ham, it’s altered my consciousness, rearranged the atoms in my brain, my new all-consuming thought is “Must have more HAM.” I gorge myself. I’m in hog heaven.
Mao Moo arrives toward the end of my first plate. He’s a roast connoisseur, and has been living sans roast as Molly’s has been shut for weeks, so I expect him to tear into it like a wild boar. Instead, he gets a small plate of prawn and salad, deftly nibbles at it with calm approval. Then he gets himself a plate of the good stuff, perfectly balanced with efficient amounts of every item on offer, even the broccoli and roast potatoes, which I skipped in favor of—ahem—more ham. He gets just one plate. 20 minutes later he gets a second helping of beef and ham, then quits. He is the true roast professional. He’s eaten enough to properly rate everything on offer, but hasn’t over-stuffed himself. Contrast that with Lucky and I, who made pigs of ourselves, then went back for another plate, and as the food coma was taking hold, swaying and light-headed, went back for a 3rd deadly helping, mostly consisting of ham. That’s when Lucky called it quits, and when I went back yet again for yet another helping of that heavenly ham, that gorgeous, sweet delectable swine, that pretty pink marbled perfection. My new number 1 love, my one and only, so all-consuming that eating other foods feels like cheating. Am I laying it on too thick? No thicker, says I, than the intoxicating honey mustard glaze that adorned that magnificent beast. And there are six days between this moment and my next opportunity to partake of that porcine communion. How will I endure?
This is not an endorsement. Rather, it is a warning. If you want to be spared the instant fixation and consummate withdrawal over the ham, then you should order the all-day breakfast instead. Or get the roast, but skip over the ham and move on down the buffet table. As if you could resist its succulence, its shining glory, its come-hither aroma. Good luck saying no to that culinary wonder.
Next month, The Steakhouse Co. will introduce their own Sunday carvery complete with prime rib. I’ll do my duty and check it out, and review both roasts in a head-to-head battle royale the likes of which Patpong has never seen.
In the meantime if you want to tempt fate, Shenanigans’ Sunday roast is from noon to 7 pm, or whenever the food runs out. I suggest getting there early. And while you’re waiting for Sunday to roll around, you can slake your yearning for hot flesh by browsing the photo archive on my Facebook page, and get daily glimpses—mostly of thighs and breasts—on my Twitter @BangkokSeven in addition to other free articles, pics, and videos on both Bangkok Seven’s and Bangkok Nites’ Patreon pages.