Picture all the customary modern signifiers of an internationally revered, clamorously buzzy new London restaurant — the artfully displayed bottles of natural wine, the intense Noma alumnus armed with a squeezy bottle of bone marrow garum — and you will find precisely none of them at The Chancellors pub in Hammersmith. The vibe on a recent Thursday afternoon was decidedly more Michelob than Michelin; framed Fulham shirts and Guinness-hefting old boys gathered beneath the burbling sound of televised golf on the big screen.
And yet, if you are apprised of culinary hype, then you probably know that this outwardly unremarkable space also happens to be home to Crisp Pizza W6: a permanent kitchen residency slinging thin, crackly New York-style pies which have been anointed by pizza aficionados of all stripes as perhaps the best in the capital. Hours-long queues have snaked back towards the Apollo. England captain Harry Kane has swung by for a takeaway. Other chefs, gastro-tourists from the US, and local food nerds have inevitably made their own pilgrimages to see if self-taught pizzaiolo and founder Carl McCluskey’s creation is worth the outsize fuss. And this, of course, is the part that is especially relevant. Because the other thing that could be seen in that unassuming, sunlit pub on that particular Thursday was me: your friendly neighbourhood greedy guts, pulling a glistening first slice of pepperoni from my mouth, widening my eyes, and chuckling in disbelieving wonder at the urgent, crunching genius of it. We will come to whether it is actually “the best pizza in London” in a moment. But Crisp is absolutely worthy of its current hype and attention.
