The Yorkshire pudding was bigger than my head. No joke—it was like a giant, crispy cloud that had decided to be delicious instead of raining on me. One bite, and I actually heard a grown man at the next table whisper, “That’s the one.”
My mate ordered the fish and chips, which came out looking like a battleship had docked on his plate. The batter was so light and golden, it crunch-whispered when he cut into it. He ate it in about four minutes, then just stared at the empty plate with a kind of sad reverence.
The Pub Grub That Acts Fancy
What I love about The Freeman is that it doesn’t pretend to be a Michelin-star joint. The menu says “pub classics,” and that’s what you get—except someone in the kitchen clearly cares enough to roast their veg properly and season their chips. It’s like when your mum suddenly watches a cooking show and elevates her bangers and mash from “good” to “whoa.”
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We also tried the sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Let me tell you: it was the kind of pudding that makes you close your eyes and lean back in your chair like you’re receiving a message from a higher power. Too dramatic? Try it, then get back to me.
