To each their own but a religious person I am not. That said, after this weekend’s pilgrimage ‘cross the Mersey to check out Jimmy’s Sunday roast offering, I definitely believe I’ve experienced purgatory. ‘Sunday Mass’ takes place at Jimmy’s on the sacred day of the roast potato, at ‘the church of rock ‘n’ roll’, which manifests as the second-floor restaurant above the ground-level bar area.

Sit back, grab a brew (or a stiff drink) because I’m about to tell you why I now believe I know what it feels like to dance between Heaven and Hell.

First though, let me give you a bit of context…

I’ve just moved house so my fridge is bare. So baron, in fact, that I’ve been living off ginger biscuits and bagels for the past two weeks. Like, eating has just not been an option with the mountain of tasks still on my to-do list. Fortunately, this particular Sunday, I was able to appease my growling stomach with the promise of a table at 2pm for Sunday dinner at the (relatively) new Jimmy’s bar at the very top of Bold Street.

We did the standard rat race around the city centre looking for a parking space and ended up trekking a bit in the biting cold so it was nice to finally step into the warmth of the rock ‘n’ roll theme bar. Greeted by the already Insta-famous wall of lava lamps and an interior which looks like a glorious cross between an Amsterdam sex shop and a Motley Crue music video, I’m already loving it.

Jimmy's Sunday Roast Bread and Wine

I was the kind of angsty teen which deliberately tore holes in the M&S tights my mum bought me and scrawled Nirvana lyrics in Tippex over the ‘Nevermind the Bollocks’ bag I was forever getting reprimanded for in school. So, ascending the red zebra print stairs up to Jimmy’s recently-opened restaurant, with The Raconteurs playing in the background, I felt right at home. A great start.

Then, things started to go just a smidge Pete Tong…

As part of the theme, Sunday Mass features a hairy-legged, Doc Marten-wearing, (male) pianist going by the name of ‘Sister Sanderson’, dressed as a nun, playing a grand piano in the middle of the (fairly small) room. An epic idea and one I’m totally down with but Jesus Christ Our Lord and Saviour, it was LOUD. Like, so loud you need a diploma in lip-reading and hand signals to be able to communicate with the waiting staff nevermind the person sat in front of you.

Sister Sanderson, you’re one talented wo(man) and if I hadn’t been sat but a few yards from your tinkling ivories, I would have been headbanging along to your instrumental rendition of Tiny Dancer too. However, given the intimate surroundings, the volume could do with being cranked down by a decibel or two.

Okay, first irk off my chest, now let’s shuffle onto something more positive and celebrate the attention to detail executed here.

After being shown to our table (with a glorious vantage point of the unrivalled views of the Bombed Out Church) we were presented with a shot glass of red wine and a small square of salted bread. Initially, this went over our heads but given the ‘hymn’ sheet music for Bohemian Rhapsody propped up inside our menus and the piano-playing nun right next to us, the religious connotation of the wine and bread seem retrospectively obvious.

To be fair, my brain had almost dissolved into mulch I was that hungry at this point so I can be forgiven for being a little slow on the uptake, right? Hangry, too, as we eyeballed our waitress while she whizzed around the gaff, telepathically WILLING her to take our order. Eventually she did but fast-forward an hour and we were still waiting for it to arrive to our table.

I did the going to the toilet in the hopes your food will have appeared by the time you return thing twice to no avail. An hour and 45 minutes after giving our order for two sirloin beef roasts with a side order of charred tenderstem broccoli, it was finally put down in front of us. Feeling a little frazzled by the raucous commotion around us and positively emaciated by now, we were less than impressed to have waited the best part of TWO HOURS for our food. Thank the Lord we didn’t order starters too, although the Beer & Onion Soup did sound (and look) next-level delicious.

Jimmy's Sunday Roast

Fortunately for those who were about to feel my wrath, the plate of food in front of us transpired to be the best ‘outside roast’ we have ever eaten and hands down the best Sunday dinner I’ve had in Liverpool for a long time. From a choice of porchetta pork belly, shoulder of lamb, sirloin beef or beetroot wellington, we went for the beef which was served pink and melt-in-the-mouth tender. I probably would have chosen chicken or nut roast had they been an option but hey, Jimmy’s isn’t about catering to the mainstream.

Everything else on the plate was as impeccable as the meat, it really was. Proper good, honest, homemade grub that I would eat every day of the week if I could. Fluffy Yorkshire puddings which were so charmingly misshapen you knew they’d been freshly made. Crispy roast potatoes that were almost as good as my mum’s and let me tell you, that’s some seriously high praise. Rich, tasty gravy served generously in a teapot. Perfectly cooked, vibrant veg which had been seasoned expertly and delivered with just the right amount of crunch. A true edible masterpiece.

There are other choices on the Sunday menu because, believe it or not, there are weirdos in the world who don’t like roast dinner but I can’t express how zealously I implore you to give the Jimmy’s roast a go.

So, basically, what you’re about here is a concept which has absolutely stacks of potential and probably just needs a few more weeks of trial and error to iron out the creases and transform into something awesome. Practice makes perfect and these guys are definitely onto an absolute winner if they can figure out how to run a tighter ship without compromising on quality. I’ll certainly be heading back to Jimmy’s for Sunday Mass despite my aforementioned qualms because I’d go to Hell and back again for those roasties!

To book your table for Jimmy’s Sunday Roast visit

Stephanie Whalley