Clunch Review: Somerville

Cherwell ha(ye)s received news of distress at our nabbing of the word ‘clunch’ for our column. We formally apologise for stealing the word so pierreniciously, and hope not to offend the original creators of a really Joe-vial word.

To Somerville. The corner of a musky-smelling reading room is never a good place to have lunch. I’m told by my friend it’s been frequented by many a debauched Somervillean in the past. I take a moment to evaluate and begin to think the musky smell is something more than well-known Oxford ‘old building and panels’. But I remain optimistic. I’ve been to Somerville clunch on many occasions in its prettier main hall and, after tripping gracefully and throwing pints of Diet Coke across the oaken floors, thoroughly enjoyed tucking into my stodge and grease.

But my hopes of leaving satiated are soon quashed. Although the beef and Guinness pie looks satisfactory (C+,) and the salad bar is impressively stocked (A-), the veggie option, Quorn meatballs and spaghetti, is uninspired (E). This was saddening given the Somerville chef’s reputation for making dishes sound like hip hop collaborations (‘Greek pie ft. feet’, anyone? Why not feta?)

The spaghetti having been left to sit in the heat for just a moment too long is limper than a boy after too many beers. Even the mash is poor (F). Turning over lump after lump, I felt like I was in a nuclear bunker eating Smash for sustenance. Alas, no. The greens are soggy (B). I’d make a witty pun about them, but by this point in the review, I think we both know that it’ll just being another euphemism for ‘they’re pretty shit’.

Their serving staff alone, however, make Somerville clunch worth visiting. I’ve not been serv[ic]ed by more attractive men than when I last scrolled through Grindr. I have no idea who is head of recruiting Somerville’s hall staff, but they should definitely be promoted to head of catering for their ability to choose the best (eye) candy this side of the Oxford Fashion show. Their culinary tastes certainly can’t be any worse than whoever thought up those dry Quorn balls and plonked them on a plate.