For quite a while now, various friends have been telling me words to the effect of ‘Bill, you’re a bit of a foodie, you enjoy writing. Have you ever thought about making a food blog?’
Now, those that know me well, know that the ‘bit of a foodie’ thing is quite the understatement – I live and breathe the stuff! There isn’t much to learn about food that I don’t know already. Here is the second in a series of restaurant reviews, written by me. Bon appetite!
Standing to the right and holding on to the handrail as others bustled up past me two steps at a time. Feeling the stale, warm air blow cooler and fresher as we escalated ever higher, I rifled through each pocket more than once for a tube ticket that would eventually turn up in the first place I had checked.
Out through the exit barriers at St Paul’s station and into the Saturday night I went, excited and ready to review another restaurant!
Where were we headed this time? To Pizza Express. This particular branch is well-placed in an area simply teeming with history. Just metres away from Sir Christopher Wren’s crowning, baroque, glory – St Paul’s cathedral, with its towering dome serving as the magnificent backdrop to a restaurant that has an equally illustrious, although more recent, history. A fantastic place for me to sample the flip-side of Italian cuisine – the misunderstood but incredibly delicious ‘pizza.’
My girlfriend was supposed to join me tonight, but she wasn’t feeling good and stayed home. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel disappointed – I’d even had my haircut for the occasion. I would’ve invited somebody else but the notice was too short.
I reached the door and went inside. As soon as you cross the threshold of this place, you can feel the atmosphere – it’s electric! The sudden noise and chatter felt warm and welcoming.
‘Hi Marco, table for one please.’
They all know me in here.
They all know me in here.
He ushered me up onto a pseudo mezzanine at one side, to a cosy two-seater with views of the street. I’ve sat at this very table at least twice before with my girlfriend. In fact, I took her here for my thirtieth birthday last month. I scanned the menu as Marco whisked away the surplus wine-glass and cutlery.
‘For starter, I’ll have my usual please, Marco.’
‘Your usual..?’
‘My usual. Dough-balls!’ I laughed. Maybe he didn’t recognise me with the haircut?
‘And to drink, sir?’
I opted for a bottle of Chardonnay and told him to hold off on the main for the moment. I needed more time to choose. I’m indecisive.
The wine arrived in a chrome bucket of ice to keep it chilled – a thoughtful gesture. I poured out a big glass-full and gulped it down, feeling instantly calmer as I waited for my dough-balls to arrive. Whilst we are on the subject of wine, a useful tip to remember is that white wine is best served cold, where red only really works at room temperature.
Not more than five minutes later, Marco brought my dough-balls over. Eight on a plate, perfectly baked, beige and still warm from the stone oven. They looked ‘quite the part’- all smoothly rough and roundly moulded. They always bring to mind in me the pebbles that were perhaps wielded and thrown in anger by the baying crowds of an ancient Roman amphitheatre, at animals and gladiators that were disappointing in their performance. Not a coincidence, I believe, coming back full-circle to today, here in an Italian restaurant. They were served with a ramekin of garlic butter, as is customary.
I took a bite and can confirm to you, they tasted every bit as delicious as they looked. Bread doesn’t have a particularly strong flavour, per se, but it’s still lovely.
With each forked dough-ball melting the garlic butter on contact in the ramekin, I was in heaven. A soft, fluffy centre, accessed by breaching a lovely, crisp crust. A crispness very much akin to that of my carefully chosen Chardonnay. I texted my girlfriend.
After long minutes, I finally decided on what to have for main and put in my order with Marco. I went for lasagne. For those of you who haven’t tried it before, it’s a combination of a bolognese type meat layered alternately with rectangular pasta sheets, baked in a dish, and finished off with a white sauce that the Italians call béchamel. If my description leaves you a little baffled, think moussaka but substitute the aubergine for pasta sheets. A real ‘foodie’s’ choice.
If it’s done well – and it often is – nothing in the Mediterranean matches.
If it’s done well – and it often is – nothing in the Mediterranean matches.
‘Along with the lasagne, could I also have some more dough-balls, please? And…’
I held my wine bottle up to check it in the light, ‘…also another bottle of Chardonnay.’
I poured out the remainder of my first bottle into the glass and leant back, taking a look around at the other diners enjoying their pizzas. I like to think of Pizza Express as a real Saturday night kind of a restaurant. A great place to come with friends as an alternative to a nightclub, or a bar.
There was a young couple sat on the table adjacent to mine, both of them attractive and successful looking. I imagine they perhaps worked in media. Maybe that was how they met? They seemed comfortable together, as she giggled through a rather animated story of his.
The lasagne made its way to me not a moment too soon. It looked and smelled equal parts delicious. The question is, would it pass the all-important taste test? I cut into the golden baked cheese top and through the layers of pasta and meat. Steam rose from within, like an incense offering to Edisia, the Roman goddess of feasting.
All I can say is – very delicious! Garlic, tomato, olives, basil and lots of other herbs were all present in flavour. It had everything taste-wise, and then some. Really lovely. The second batch of dough-balls also had it going on. Even lighter than the previous serving, but still very much al dente, their succulence bringing to mind Botticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus.’ I posted an update on Twitter.
The couple next to me were now discussing some of the memorable meals they’d had together.
‘Sorry guys, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.’ I took a sip from my wine, ‘I’ve eaten lasagne in Valencia, alfresco. That was memorable.’
‘Sorry?’ the girl sounded confused, but looked happy.
‘It’s Italian for dining outdoors. I’m a restaurant critic.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I’m Billy, by the way.’ I smiled, offering my hand to shake.
‘I’m Abbey and this is Ian, my boyfriend.’ she pointed to Ian, who nodded.
‘Isn’t Valencia in Spain?’ said Ian.
‘Yes, but they dine outdoors there too.’
It turned out to be a rather nice chat that the three of us had. I told them about some of the other memorable meals I’d eaten, and also about some of the travelling I’d done. I think they were actually glad of the extra company, in a funny sort of way.
All good things most come to an end, however, and after a bit, Ian went up to the counter to pay and we had to say our inevitable goodnights.
I was left alone with the rest of my Chardonnay and a dilemma over what to have for dessert. I decided on nothing in the end – I don’t really have the sweetest of teeth, if truth be told. I will, for the sake of a balanced review, however, endeavour a pudd for you readers next time. I promise.
I didn’t even want to finish my second bottle of wine, for some reason, and signalled to Marco for the bill.
‘Thanks, Marco.’ I said as he handed back my debit card. I stood up and put my coat on. ‘Thanks, lads.’ I said as I waved across the room to the chefs in the open plan kitchen.
What a good evening!
By Billy Brown
Billy Brown 