5 minute read
Boca di Lupo
Bocca di Lupo, London
Feed a cold and starve a fever, as the well-trodden aphorism tells us. A 21st-century addendum might be that a hearty lunch is quite the tonic following a booster vaccination. Admittedly, it doesn’t quite so much trip off the tongue as lugubriously waddle, but isn’t it the thought that counts?
This adage-in-the-making springs from a visit to a muchlauded restaurant named after an (Italian) idiom, Bocca di Lupo in London’s Soho, following a preprandial jab. I certainly can’t claim that it’s a hitherto undiscovered or recherché gem, and I’m undoubtedly not the first to explain that the eponymous idiom translates from ‘in the wolf’s mouth’ in Italian to ‘break a leg’ in English - perfect for the setting in theatre land. However, given the tribulations of recent years - is it still worthy of its enviably laurelled reputation?
The menus published on the restaurant’s website all feature the respective day’s date, suggesting frequent changes. This secretly delights me, as it frustrates my partner’s habit of planning her meal sometimes weeks in advance (anathema to my own practice of waiting until the very last moment before designating my dishes). I check the website a few weeks after our visit and there are conspicuous changes from the menu that we received, so it’s plausible that there are indeed daily revisions.
I promise I’ll get to the food, but the decor must get a mention first. Paintings of food in restaurants aren’t exactly novel, but the ones adorning the walls here catch the eye and clearly won’t be replicated in a dozen other trattorias in London. They depict the gamut of ingredients that one might expect (so far, so traditional) but have a genuine character too. I’m sure that the fish staring at me from one canvas has a decidedly morose expression. Usefully, when my partner has a minor coughing fit (induced by a rogue sip of water rather than anything more sinister), I can use a nearby painting to confirm that she has indeed gone as red as a lobster.
Olives which are plump to the point of lasciviousness plus a brace of breads - ciabatta and focaccia (the latter boasting a cheery contingent of onion) - get things off to a flying start. The baker is deservingly name-checked by the menu. The accompanying olive oil is sublime; calculated sacrifices have to be made between this plus the bread, and those salacious olives. Wine has arrived at this point - I’ve been tempted by the sole orange wine on the list, which goes down an absolute treat. Pleasantly, my partner isn’t ‘upsold’ when she asks for a crisp white - she’s told the house white will do the trick, and it certainly does.
Further snacks follow - jointly well-received fried artichoke and deep-fried breaded balls of pork, veal and more of the wonderful olives. The menu taciturnly describes the latter as ‘stuffed olives’ so I order a couple, expecting, well, olive-sized morsels. The golden golf-ball sized treats that arrive are very welcome, although as a consequence my appetite dwindles by dessert (as you’ll see a Herculean effort was made in the interests of journalism; bear with me).
We agree that small pasta plates will pay suitable homage (or the Italian equivalent) to the restaurant’s culinary character. My partner is suitably impressed with her pumpkin cappellacci (an unfamiliar pasta title for me - it’s essentially wonky tortellini), which has amaretti biscuits liberally sprinkled over the top, providing an enticing textural contrast. My pappardelle with venison is a velvety rapture; its parmesan sidekick delivers a puissant but not predominant layer of flavour.
At the risk of sounding inerudite, our mains are less susceptible to being pigeonholed as Italian dishes. My partner’s Caciucco is technically a Tuscan fish stew, replete with mussels, langoustines and assorted piscine treats - but it wouldn’t feel out of place (name notwithstanding) in a classical French or Spanish restaurant. This is certainly not a criticism, and it garners a rave review. I’ve gone for a beef rib dish - again, a candidate for a fair few spots in Western Europe, but the side dish of polenta with parmesan incontrovertibly drags the dish back within Italian borders. It’s a divine combination.
I did warn you that there were difficulties with dessert. At this point both time and gastric capacity are working against us (we have timed tickets for the revamped Courtauld Gallery - but that’s another review). Handily, a solution is presented by the restaurant's espresso gelatos, which offer a swift and sapid end to proceedings.
As above, Bocca di Lupo is hardly an obscurity. There have been plentiful plaudits from the usual prized pundits, and hearing from me that the meal was lovely is probably going to be more cat’s-last-trip-to-the-vet than cat-out-of-thebag material for many readers. Perhaps there is a glimmer of relevance in knowing that it’s still delightful? I’ll hope so. Although I have some doubt that my vaccination-based aphorism will catch on, I can at least be confident that you’ll come away from a lunch here feeling suitably boosted.
