In Defence of Proper Gravy: Our Head Chef Settles the National Argument

Right. Kettles on, opinions out. Every few months a national newspaper runs a gravy poll, the internet divides along regional lines, and everyone ends up angrier than a chef who's been told the jus is 'a bit thin'. So we're settling it here, at the pass, once and for all. I've ranked the gravies of Britain from worst to best. I accept no correspondence — except, actually, I do. More on that at the end.

Fifth Place: The Bistro Jus

You know the one. A thimble of glossy reduction, artfully smeared across the plate with what I can only assume is a decorator's brush. It tastes of red wine and ambition and absolutely nothing like Sunday. Look — a good jus is technically accomplished. It's also gone in one swipe of the fork, and you're left eating a £28 short rib essentially dry. Sauce is not a garnish. Sauce is the point.

Fourth Place: Instant Granules

I'll say this gently, because half of Chatburn's mums are reading. Granules have their place, and that place is 11pm after a night out, or a caravan in Filey. They are a comfort, not a craft. We don't judge in this kitchen. Much.

Third Place: Northern Meat Gravy

Now we're talking. The proper chip-shop style meat gravy — rich, mahogany, unbothered by pretension. Poured over chips in a tray on a cold Tuesday, it's one of the genuinely great British eating experiences. It only misses the top two because it's a specialist: a brilliant one-trick pony, but a one-trick pony nonetheless.

Second Place: Parsley Sauce's Dark Horse Cousin — Proper Onion Gravy

Some of you will cry foul because onion gravy is technically a gravy, not a ranking scandal, but hear me out. Slow-cooked onions, a good splash of ale, beef stock reduced until it coats the back of the spoon — a proper onion gravy is the difference between a banger-and-mash supper and a banger-and-mash event. It takes forty minutes and patience, which is precisely why the granule brigade gave up on it.

First Place: The Real Thing — Roast-Tin Gravy

The winner, and it's not close. Gravy made in the roasting tin, with the actual drippings of the actual bird or beast you're about to eat. Flour stirred into the fat, stock added bit by bit, scraped from the tin with a wooden spoon and seasoned by taste, not by packet. It cannot be rushed, batch-produced or faked. It tastes of the farm, the roast and the effort. This is the gravy we pour here, every Sunday, without apology — made from bones and trim from Ribble Valley butchers we can name, because gravy made from good stock starts long before the tin hits the heat.

The Rules of the House

Three things I insist on: gravy hot enough to steam, a jug big enough to share, and never — never — more than a minute between the plate landing and the pour. Cold plates kill gravy faster than anything. Warm them.

Now It's Your Turn

I know full well half the village disagrees with me, and that's exactly the fun of it. Argue your case in the comments or on the pub's Facebook page — tell me why your nan's gravy beats mine, defend the honour of the granule, make the case for mint on lamb gravy, whatever you've got. The most compelling argument each month wins: we'll put your gravy (or your cause) on the specials board for a weekend, named after you. Bring receipts. Preferably recipes.

The jug is warming. Come and judge for yourself.