Let’s talk about roasts. Not the kind you eat on a Sunday. The kind that burns.
We’re in South West London. The land of organic veg boxes and delicate egos. Roasting here is an art form. It’s a survival skill.
Forget the pub banter. We’re dissecting the unspoken judgments. The ones spat out over flat whites in Clapham or while queuing for a table in Putney.
