I almost missed my first proper Sunday roast in Scotland because of a sign in a restaurant window.
Or maybe the sign is exactly what started it.
I was walking through town when I spotted a wooden easel outside the restaurant advertising Sunday roast reservations. Not just “Sunday lunch,” but a real roast — homemade Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy, Highland beef, the whole thing. Curious, I stopped long enough to take a picture of the menu so I could ask Les about it later.
Because despite spending months in Scotland, I had somehow never actually had a proper Sunday roast. I’d tried in Edinburgh during Christmas, but every place known for doing a good one was fully booked. At the time, it felt like one of those small travel disappointments you shrug off and move past.
But somehow it feels fitting now that my first real Sunday roast didn’t happen in the rush of Edinburgh at the beginning of the journey. It happened later, in Nairn — the place that slowly became home.
When I showed him the photo later, we both kind of laughed about it. He had eaten there before but wasn’t entirely sure what their version would be like. Apparently, some places do Sunday roast buffet-style where they keep piling things onto your plate if you ask nicely. This one was different — you ordered your meat choice, and they brought out a plated meal instead.
There was something oddly comforting about the whole thing before we even sat down to eat.
Cold outside. Warm pub atmosphere. Quiet conversation. No rush.
I ordered the Highland beef.
And somewhere between the gravy, the Yorkshire pudding, and Les passionately critiquing the roast potatoes, I realized this wasn’t really about the food anymore.
Because of course Les had opinions about the roasties.
“They’re supposed to boil them first and rough them up a bit before roasting them,” he explained, mildly scandalized by how smooth and perfect they looked.
And honestly? That tiny moment told me more about culture than any travel guide ever could. Also, ironically because I didn’t think i would actually get to eat a Sunday roast in a restaurant I looked into recreating my own version. One of the tips was to boil the potatoes first and then shake them in a colander before putting them into the roasting pan with the beef drippings.
Food carries memory.
Technique carries memory.
People carry memory.
Traditions survive in tiny details like roast potatoes and homemade gravy and the way someone insists something is supposed to be done.
The funny part is that I never even took a picture of the actual meal.
Normally, that would have annoyed me. But the truth is, I was too busy being there.
Too busy listening.
Too busy laughing.
Too busy participating instead of documenting.
And maybe that’s the real shift travel has given me.
Not just seeing new places, but learning how to be present enough to actually taste them.
Not consume them.
Not collect them.
Not perform them for content.
But experience them.
Because some places feed more than hunger.