Sunday best

Beautifully succulent beef with a treacle glaze, crisp golden Yorkshire puddings and perfect roast potatoes. Food writer Charlotte Smith Jarvis says she has found the best roast lunch in Suffolk at The Packhorse

The last time I visited The Packhorse Inn, in the lovely, chocolate boxey Moulton near Newmarket, it was for an overnighter with my husband. I recall a memorable duck starter with a gizzard pastry, an oversized, bouncy bed, a gorgeous bathtub in the room, and us making mooneyes at one another on one of the many countryside rambles bestowed upon this corner of Suffolk.

Our most recent trip was a complete 180 degrees switch. There’s no room for romance when you’ve got teenagers who are aghast at the horror of being asked to peel themselves from bed at 10.30am on a Sunday. “A bit of sunlight won’t kill you,” we tell them, only to be met by beady red eyes, and unruly mops.

I say, there’s nothing a decent meal won’t fix. And I’m right, because the journey home was (shock horror) actually quite a pleasure. It’s amazing what meat, veg and gravy can do.

“We were there for one thing. Beef. Ordering ahead, on Sunday’s tables of four to six, you can experience the Great British Beef Feast. It’s £38 per person, including a starter or dessert. It’s worth every penny.”

While it does teeter at the ‘higher end’ of things, with its immaculate, magazine-ready decor, there is no doubt (as for any of Chestnut’s properties) that The Packhorse is a pub. Everyone is welcome to pull up a pew at the bar for a pint. And dogs, as we found out on our visit, are made to feel at home.

Many gastropubs advertise themselves as friendly to the ‘welly and wet nose’ brigade, but this place truly means it, ramblers appearing here, there and everywhere, tugging rucksacks, and sometimes prized pooches, behind them.

First impressions are that it’s just as I remember it. Smart. Simply styled. And, most importantly, comfortable. In fact, I had to remind my eldest she really shouldn’t be reclining into the cushions on the soft, leather-clad banquette. “But it’s so nice!”

Our friendly server for Sunday lunch soon had us topped up with water from a really very beautiful, orb-like jug, allowing us plenty of time to peruse the seasonal menu.

But we didn’t need to look. We were there for one thing. Beef. Ordering ahead, on Sunday’s tables of four to six, you can experience the Great British Beef Feast. It’s £38 per person, including a starter or dessert. And, trust me, it’s worth every penny.

House made focaccia with whipped wild garlic butter and olives

Not wanting to pre-load ourselves too heavily, we opted for dessert. Which turned out to be a good plan, seeing as lunch commences with a quartet of fluffy, doorstep-sized, house-made focaccia, a whirl of ethereally light, whipped wild garlic butter, and a pot of mixed olives.

We were advised of a 15 minute wait for the main event. More than enough time then for the teens to get jacked up on cola, and for the lusciously soft and plummy Pinot Noir to take effect.

Soon the entire table was laden. “Mum, there’s no Yorkshire pudding,” the youngest, a Yorkie fiend, whispered to his parents worriedly. Seconds later, the team were back, warm plates in hand, topped with golden, puffy puds, atop a layer of smooth carrot puree.

All foodie fears allayed, we tucked in. This is where I wish smell-o-vision, or taste-o-vision had been invented. I’m not sure

I’m able to do justice to this roast with only words . . . but I’ll try. So, let’s firstly focus on the star of the show. A board of perfectly-rested, pink-centred chateaubriand. Utterly irresistible, and gorgeously succulent, sweetened by a treacle glaze. Beside it, sticky, umami ox cheeks, collapsing in their own slow-cooked gelatinous juices, and a lick of malty Wherry ale.

There was roasted bone marrow too, which none of us are really a fan of (unless it's from a slow-cooked leg of lamb). I have a kind of Holy Trinity when it comes to Sunday lunch. If the cook can deliver amazing meat, roasties and gravy, everything else will fall into place. Crucially, if they get these things wrong, well, you might as well have stayed at home, to be honest.

Meanwhile roast potatoes (plenty of them too) are yielding within, and shatteringly golden without. The aforementioned Yorkshire pudding puffs and rises, towerlike, never losing its composure (even under the pressure of a waterfall of proper gravy).

Cauliflower cheese is topped with Parmesan and breadcrumbs. The charred edges of barbecued hispi cabbage are married with a chunky salsa verde. Toothsome, enormous, carrots are souped-up with mustard seeds and parsley. And Wye Valley asparagus glistens from the other side of the table, glossy with butter and wild garlic.

Every element, every mouthful, begs us to go in for more. It is absolutely outstanding. We could scarcely finish, but decided to tackle pud anyway, sharing a couple between the four of us.

Here, again, the kitchen excels. A billed ‘chocolate ganache with double cream ice cream, caramel and cookie’ is carefully balanced and tastes, with everything on the spoon together, like proper, honey-infused hokey pokey.

While a glass of rhubarb trifle, crowned with a dollop of cinnamon ice cream, sings springtime.

That’s it. Mic dropped. You absolutely HAVE to try this out. If you don’t think you can handle the full feast experience, fear not, as there’s a full Sunday menu too offering up anything from rare breed beef strip loin to slow-cooked Blythburgh pork with all the trimmings.