The admission by Toby Carvery that it chopped down an ancient oak tree overlooking one of its pubs has outraged anyone who cares about arboreal preservation, British heritage and decent food and drink – not necessarily in that order.
The Mitchells and Butlers group, which owns Toby Carvery, issued a statement saying that the tree in Whitewebbs Park in Enfield, north London, was felled because they ‘were advised by our specialist arboriculture contractors that it caused a potential health and safety risk’.
‘This was an important action to protect our employees and guests as well as the wider general public, to whom we have a duty of care,’ a spokesman for the pub chain insisted. But is that really the case?
It was believed that the tree was around 500 years old and ecological experts who had surveyed it as recently as 2024 suggested that it might have at least another half-century of life in it, if not longer. But now the tree is no more.
The loss of such a venerable old oak is devastating but what makes the whole thing worse is that this act of natural vandalism was done in order to safeguard a Toby Carvery, one of the most benighted places to be found in Britain.
If you’ve ever been to one of the group’s establishments, founded forty years ago and running to over 150 institutions nationwide, you know what to expect. Toby Carvery proudly call themselves ‘home of the roast’, and extol their various offers on their website; kids eat for £1 during the Easter holidays, there is 25 per cent off the total food bill if you ‘unlock’ some hidden part of the website – forget the dark web, it’s the horrors of the very online Toby Carvery that we really need to be savvy about – and the brand has pivoted to trumpeting about its continued history. ‘Helping families feast over Easter for 40 years’, we are told, before being exhorted to ‘book now’.
Frankly, I’d rather that my family starved over the Easter holiday than went into a Toby Carvery. To say that the gristly, fatty cuts of meat, served by indifferent or actively hostile staff, are below par is rather like commenting that Elon Musk is possessed of a far from inconsiderable ego. You have never seen a menu so insecure as Toby Carvery’s, so desperately does it insist on the reputation of everything featured upon it.
‘Famous Yorkie and Gravy.’ ‘Our Famous Carvery.’ ‘Notorious’ would be closer to the mark, but the marketing department have to have a go at earning their salaries.
If you choose to visit the Enfield Toby Carvery, now denuded of the oak tree that would have given its patrons some aesthetic comfort amidst the dreary slop that passes for nutrition there, you can have the carvery selection (with unlimited vegetables) for as little as £10.29 during the week, before it rockets up to £14.99 at the weekends.
I’d rather that my family and I starved over the Easter holiday than went into a Toby Carvery
With the various tokens and discounts that the canny – or desperate – can whittle together, I suppose it would be possible to feed a family of four for well under £50. This represents superficially impressive value, but everyone knows that, at these prices, you are not being served good quality, freshly sourced produce. Instead, this is food aimed at those on tight budgets and served up with the same ‘will this do’ shrug that extended to the mindless act of ecological vandalism that has justifiably outraged so many people.
Eating out in Britain is expensive, more so than it has ever been. I would applaud a genuinely forward-thinking and fair-minded pub or restaurant group that attempted to offer value for money by using overlooked cuts of meat, cheaper ingredients and locally foraged vegetables. But the empty, tawdry cynicism of the Toby Carvery is a blight on British dining.
A glance at TripAdvisor suggests that the Enfield branch’s recent patrons have been similarly unimpressed: ‘This was the worst eating out experience ever’; ‘Chaos. People walking out’; ‘This is a disgusting establishment. The staff are rude and unprofessional.’ As one disappointed diner wrote, ‘I think it’s time to close doors for good.’
Had the management taken these comments on board and given the Carvery, rather than the oak, the chop, then everyone would have been considerably better off. As one wag remarked, they really should have offered an Easter deal on oaked Chardonnay in this establishment – but I fear such self-awareness is beyond them, alas.
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