Toby Carvery - Formby

Was very busy. Understandable on a Sunday. When we walked in the man on the desk, didn't even look up, and ignored us for a minute then said Name?! Was seen to a table in the smallest corner with a fireplace right behind one of the chairs, so it was a struggle to get up and down to food and drink stations. The server, which I assume was per area, was very busy, as there was a large table in the area too. Took a while to get her attention for the bill, but she was very polite. Won't be rushing back to this one.

It was absolutely packed out, yet all the staff were happy, calm and professional despite the obvious pressure. We had pre-booked and were shown to our table on time, and were met by our waitress promptly. She was excellent. We got our food quickly despite the queues, as the food was plentiful and the staff behind the counter were efficient. The food was top quality. Your staff in this branch are an absolute credit to your company. Working as a team, thriving under pressure and friendly to your customers. 10 out of 10.

Ah, Toby Carvery, Formby— Where roast dreams dare to burn bright And Yorkshire puddings rise like golden suns Over the blessed land of gravy. You do not dine here. You embark. You enter through doors carved by time and Sunday tradition, Led by the scent— That holy fragrance of meat, fire, and folklore. Behold the altar of the carvery, Where the chef, blade in hand, Is not a mere cook— But a guardian of the sacred roast. He wields his carving knife like Excalibur, Slicing through beef so tender It must have whispered its surrender. The turkey glistens with virtue, The gammon blushes with sinful sweetness, The roast potatoes—crisped by angels— Crack beneath your teeth like thunder on a moor. And the veg! Oh, the veg! A rainbow of righteousness— Cauliflower cheese cloaked in molten heaven, Parsnips that have danced through caramelized storms, Peas and carrots aligned like nature’s chorus. But lo—the gravy, That velvet river of salvation, Poured not sparingly, but devoutly, Baptizing every morsel In the liquid lore of British heritage. Around you, families feast like kings of old, Their laughter echoing off wooden beams, Pints clink like promises, And time, for once, dares to pause Out of respect. Toby Carvery Formby is not just a meal— It is a reckoning. A place where hunger meets its match And leaves defeated, yet whole. Five stars? No. Five constellations. For I have dined among gods, And their names were Roast, Gravy, and Glory.