We rushed into Bocca di Lupo on Archer St in Soho for a quick pre-theatre; it turned out to be the best Italian meal I've had since Babbo in New York and La Corte Sconta in Venice. (I had probably better add at this point that I haven't travelled extensively in Italy. But still.)
The menu at Bocca isn't conventional; every dish comes in either small or large portions, so there is no clear distinction between starters and mains. There are also little Fritti, which joyously fulfil the role of antipasti. A battered courgette flower was filled with mozzarella; it's just as well we cut it longitudinally, or one of us would have missed the anchovy rolled up in the base. N1 said there was too much batter. I didn't mind. Next came an artichoke a la giudia, a dish apparently originating in the Roman ghetto; with the outer leaves peeled off, it had then been deep fried. The leaves around the heart had opened out as they crisped up, and it looked like a miniature pineapple head. No peeling required. Then we had a (huge) deep-fried olive filled with pork and veal; more meaty than olive.
Pansotti - I learned - is triangular filled pasta from Liguria. Bocca's pansotti is filled with nettle and chard, but N1 complained that there wasn't enough filling for the taste to show. I was too busy enjoying the taste of the walnut sauce against the pasta to care. It turns out that pansotti is in any case supposed to be lightly filled, not heaving. Then came a pork and foie gras sausage served on a bed of farro, which seemed to be pearl barley. Despite being called “rustic”, which evokes images of paté with chunks of varied meat and an uneven texture, it was strangely smooth for something tasting of sausages, even smart ones with herbs and foie gras. But this rich, unusual combination made me wonder why restaurants don’t mix foie gras and pork more often. (If, of course, we should be eating foie gras at all: roll on ethical foie gras.)
Ossobuco - stolen from the pre-theatre menu which we weren't otherwise following - does deserve the label rustic, in the best possible way; simple, strong flavours that combine beautifully - and in the case of the lemon zest in the gremolata, unexpectedly. I didn't notice the garlic in the gremolata at the time, probably because I was enjoying the other flavours so much, but it came back to haunt my palate later. The saffron risotto the meat was served on was just right, and the marrow in the bone felt like a glutinous freebie.
For dessert, there was no question what we were going to order: Sanguinaccio, a sweet paté of pig's blood and chocolate from Abruzzo. In fact, it turned out to be chocolately and not at all bloody, simply a superior Nutella. It didn't seem to want the bread it was served with. Not yet sated, and still with a bit of time, we then ordered a Sicilian chocolate and marzipan ball. It's a pleasure to have proper, almondy marzipan, not the commercial, Christmas-stocking stuff.
Service was crisp and pleasant. Since we didn't have a lot of time for dinner, we made sure to arrive early and get our order in quickly. Bocca reciprocated, so we were able to give the meal all the slow attention it deserved (nul points there for the Anchor & Hope down in The Cut). Bocca gave us one of those rare meals where I wouldn’t have done without a single dish.
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