Restaurant: Briciole
Location: Marylebone
By Boeing: 1398 miles
By Boris Bike: 5.6 miles
To say that a country enjoys its food is a truism as gauche as remarking that misery ensues on Ryanair flights. But there are some nations for which cuisine has transcended mere sustenance and become a cherished art-form. Table-tops become altars and waitresses godesses serving manna from heaven. Albanians eat and the Scots eat a lot and then deep fry some more but in Italy dining is far more than mere refuelling, it is a devoted pastime and a love affair deeply ingrained in the national consciousness.
In a country where dinner has been deified it is perhaps not surprising that the larders are bountiful and the menu's run to the length of a novella. The Italian culinary footprint, like Michael Palin, has circumnavigated the globe and many of its staples have become truly global foods. Pizza and Pasta are some of the most successful exports in history giving corners of the world as distant and distinct as Kerala and Kyrigistan a little taste of Italy.
So widespread is its influence and so readily subsumed has it been into regional menus that authenticity is not always easy to judge. If the Balinese served up a Ham Hock it would surely be spotted by a Brit as a culinary fraud but a Carbonara in Cassablanca may slip into a banquet unheeded.
As you would expect in the global capital of food London is blessed with a plethora of Italian restaurants, from Michelin stars to Mitcham takeaways. I chose to bypass the temples of temptation in the west end and the city in the search for a meal that would not require the remortage of my flat but would conjure an image of the Italians at play.
In a distant corner of Marylebone lies Briciole, a delicatessen-cum-bistro situated in a former pub. Unassuming and understated from once through the door the atmosphere is convivial yet confident, with a delicatessen counter whetting the appetite as you pass to a table in the main body of the restaurant. Exposed brick walls, low lighting and simple wooden tables offer an amiable charm, a welcome contrast to the aggrandising pretentions of some trattorias in theatre land.
The aromas that drifted through from the open kitchen and lingered amongst the throng of tables were rich and welcoming. By the time we had chosen the wine, from a fulsome list featuring regions, let alone grape varieties, that I'd never heard of, no table was vacant and a burble of animated conversation eagerly echoed through the restaurant.
Wanting to do both the menu and the many regions of Italy justice we selected our courses in a tapas fashion, wanting to sample as many flavours and pay homage to as many traditions as we could. First to arrive was a simple, lightly toasted tomato bruschetta and a trio of steaming, squidgy Arancini balls. Both were delicious. Next was a dish new to me, a deep fried fritti, a deep-fried miniature pizza stuffed with Ricotta. Wherever I looked there were plates of delicacies.
It is the best form of Italian dining when your senses are invigorated and your appetite sated. You wouldn't sit down for dinner around a rustic table in an olive grove with every grandmother in the vicinity and expect to be served a beautifully presented, paltry portion so why would you in a restaurant?
With a rich, vibrant Montepulciano flowing very freely indeed the main courses arrived in something a culinary crescendo. A whir of waiters saw veal ravioli and sausages with polenta and pecorino placed before us along with wilted spinach with balsamic vinegar. With such a varied and various culinary history it is impossible to sample all of Italy's tastes in one sitting, though a week off work and the acquisition of a gastric band could provide much mirth and merriment in the trying. Just as the long limb of Italy has contrasting climates, from snowy peaks to sun baked Mediterranean groves, so do the ingredients and flavours of its cooking. It is no wonder Italian TV Chefs have a grin that never deserts their face.
To finish the evening and cleanse the palette we sampled the famously Italian Sgroppino al limone, a tart lemon sorbet with prosecco, served effervessing in a tall elegant glass. This Italian twist on the shandy was so exquisite it made the insides of the mouth reverberate in a salivating shivver.
There is an art to Italy that nowhere else in the world can emulate, an appreciation of style and elegant living that somehow manages to be both understated and decadent. Italian men somehow avoid getting oil smears on their suede Gucci loafers as they Vespa through Verona while their fathers retain dignity with furious remonstrations of their arms in public settings. They are a race apart, and food is a mistress to whom they are devoted and devout.
I recently saw a pizza chain advert that featured a deep pan 'feast' the crust of which was rudely stuffed with a hotdog. As diplomatic insults go that is akin to setting fire to a Ferrari with the statue of David in the driver's seat. But despite this bastardisation of Bologna and Brindisi us Brits rather like Italy and of course, each and every delicious one, we love their food.
