Strike Night

We arranged to meet our dear old friend from Dubai on the first night of T.F.L. strikes, which, if there happened to be a list of Mike’s daft ideas, would probably rank somewhere near the top. Nevertheless, we had put off meeting him for literally months. We had originally planned to meet at The Jackalope, a pub from the late 1700s that now serves up crazy-hot Chongqing noodles courtesy of Liu Xiaomian. They were closed on Mondays, so we needed a Plan B and, seeking out cheap eats due to a couple of very expensive holidays next year, settled on pizza. Good or bad, you can always get a pizza for around £fifteen.

Being spoilt for choice for pizza in London, we decided to try somewhere wonderfully new, a little restaurant down a lane behind Covent Garden, called Vasiniko. The name comes from “vasinicola” which means “the basil” in Neapolitan dialect. Good to know, but we were more interested in their 4.9 on Google. That’s some serious shit.

Strike-afflicted London was a strange place. Come 6.30, I left work in Mayfair and cycled into the West End. Whereas the roads were packed with buses and first-time cyclists who seem to think it’s acceptable to ride into oncoming traffic and expect neutral results, the pavements and bars were empty, due to most nine-to-fivers making a break for it earlier in the evening (no idea where the tourists were). The Porterhouse on Maiden Lane, the labyrinthine bar that I – and everyone else – loves, was deserted. I sat and enjoyed a pint on their terrace and waited for The European. We walked over to Vasiniko to meet our who is new to London and was understandably having a nightmare commute.

Vasiniko was packed, which was a good sign. We strutted past the waiting walk-ins, to our table, the best in the house, in a secluded corner with a bay window overlooking the stage door of The Lyceum, my Brompton squeezed between the back of my chair and the wall. We waited for our friend while nursing a couple of very expensive Morettis.

It turns out Vasiniko is a little on the pricier side of pizzerias. I found this surprising given that the restaurant feels a little trashy inside. The menus are gaudy and dog-eared and whereas the offering is very much focused on authentic Neapolitan pizza, you can also indulge in Dominos-y trash, such as ordering extra toppings and dips for crusts. In the restaurant, the usage of primary colours is too much even for me, and the ceiling is literally covered in fake vines (the jobsworth in me was thinking “where oh where are the sprinklers?”, especially as the main scent in the dining room was burning dough).  Nevertheless, the restaurant is cozy and has a convivial vibe, with a happy team who are clearly stretched, but attentive to all.

Our friend arrived, and we ordered. Boy did he have some tales to tell. The three of us worked together in an incredible hotel in Dubai, one that I am sure will make its way onto my blog in some way, shape, or form. He looked after the restaurants; we looked after the people. This means that we can now commodify gossip; The European and I can trade stories of HR-related clusterfucks which, after ten years, are fit for public consumption, for his juicy tales of the most scandalous area of any hotel: Food and Beverage. Starers were served; fried timballo with ham and cheese, and potato croquettes with mortadella and stracciatella. These two plates of fritti where very good; especially the timballo, but their memorability paled in comparison to the many anecdotes flying around the table.

The pizza were a different matter. The minute they were served, you could smell the quality. Vasiniko’s Neapolitan pizzas, made with biga (a traditional Italian raising agent) which creates fluffy alveolated crusts, were astounding. The European, with all her Southern Italian ancestry, and lofty expectations nodded in agreement.

The flavour in the dough was heavenly. My choice, the ‘Pistacchiella’, was a white pizza (my go-to) heaped with smoked provola, mortadella, pistachio cream, and buffalo stracciatella. “It will be very heavy”, The European warned. It was, but the earthy explosion of flavours had me licking the plate clean.

The European had a classic Margherita which she lauded as one of the best she’s eaten, and our friend appeared to order one without looking at the menu. I’m not sure what it was but it had ham on it and he enjoyed it too.

Aside from two pages of pizza that are indeed wonderful but in terms of variety and flavour combinations, frankly push the boundaries of what is acceptable in terms of what a traditional pizzeria should be serving, the menu offers a few pasta dishes and salad options that nobody in there was ordering. The dessert menu was another unhinged mix of classics such as tiramisu and rum baba, versus cheesecake and sponge cake. To be honest, after fried starters, pizzas, and a third of beers for ‘pudding’, we elected to not order any more food, settled the bill, and left.

Save for what was almost certainly a promising-looking first date two tables down, we were the last ones standing in Vasiniko. The team warmly bid us farewell and we walked out into a deserted Covent Garden. Knowing that the Lizzie Line, ever dependable and strike-resistant, was our best option homewards, we took the long-ish walk up to Tottenham Court Road, passing the occasional lost soul asking where to get a bus from, or how to get to Charing Cross.

As we approached the station, the crowds returned, and a lot more people were talking about Charing Cross. We soon realised this was because Tottenham Court Road was closed. CityMapper pointed us to, you guessed it, Charing Cross, which is actually kind of near Vasiniko, so back south we went, still reminiscing about the good old days of Dubai, me rolling my bike, it getting heavier and heavier along the way. We bid our friend farewell and began the two train rides towards home and a Rennie. We left Vasiniko at ten-ish, and got in around midnight.

 So, the question is, was Vasiniko worth this schlep? Like London during a strike, it’s a weird old place. But, based on the vibe and pizzas alone, absolutely it was.

Pizzas come in at around £fourteen to £seventeen. Starters, pizzas, and three rounds of beers came to around £forty per head including service charge.