It’s just shy of 7pm on a Tuesday evening and I’m about to do the unthinkable (lug open the door to a fitness studio) when I bump into a friend who’s practically sprinting up Bermondsey Street. ‘Just on my way to try to get into Flour & Grape, again!’ Babs pants on his way past, as I contemplate giving up, buying a gout stool and joining him.
It’s the third time in two weeks someone has mentioned this unassuming fresh pasta restaurant with glossy-eyed adoration. Though all of them had the same gripe: apparently, it’s impossible to get a table. Why, however, is not immediately clear. All the signs that usually lead to a fizzing, zeitgeisty London restaurant point the other way. It’s been open since 2017, the prices are average, it’s had no major reviews, and besides the cute littlewindow where you can see the team makingfresh pasta, it hardly seems ’grammable. Nevertheless, the endless quest for delicious carbohydrates must go on, and so I’m obliged to investigate. Besides, after those (*checks notes*) three push-ups, I’ve earned it, surely?
Plus, I’m feeling inspired. You see, the previous week I’d been tempted to Shoreditch House (I know, don’t judge me) to use the pool facilities. Though despite the fact that some people (not me, obvs) pay thousands of pounds for the privilege, these days you have to queue. Forty-five minutes later, just as my blood was turning from a light simmer to a rolling boil, a singleton is called forward, sweeping in front of the rest of us in twos and threes with smug delight. Fifteen minutes later, when my blood pressure had resumed its normal state and I was sipping a Paloma poolside like a pig in Nick Jones’s (er, rather nice once you’ve got a seat, actually) shit, I got to thinking: is that the ultimate payoff for flying solo? For having to endure the looks that say ‘Poor you, you’re still single/don’t have any friends?’ As a Brit, skipping the queue is unthinkable. Obscene, some might say. But also, delightfully devilish. Devious, even. Perhaps, going it alone is the cleverest way to bag a cheap thrill; to swan right in.
Wrong. At least at this juncture of Bermondsey Street and Long Lane, anyway. At 18.07, the room is heaving, and when groups before me turn away with wide-eyed bemusement at the 45-minute wait, I am told the exact same thing. The bar downstairs beckons. With bare brick walls, dark wood and vintage Campari posters, it’s the type of place where they put a glass of ice water in front of you as you sit down. That and the Good Omen, a fruity take on a Manhattan with fig and plum, is so good I’m almost tempted to forgive the live, laugh, love style Gin signage. Almost.
After gobbling the maraschino at the bottom of my glass I head upstairs to wait outside for the rest of my allotted time. I’m told they’re running behind and as 7pm looms, children whining ‘They’re full?!’ are dragged from the door and grown women stomp off tsk-ing, saying things like ‘Ridiculous!’ and ‘For God’s sake, why don’t they just take bookings?!’ All this frustration is beginning to get me excited.
Finally, my time comes. As I sit at the end of the bar next to distressed mirrors, facing a set of comically large wine glasses on the shelves before me, the room roars with conversation and laughter. The approachable menu has 10 types of pasta and all the expected Italian-style nibbles — burrata, melon and prosciutto, etc — as well as a handy wine list that says things like ‘fizzy Ribena for adults’ and ‘gulplable’. The definition of down to earth, it’s easy to see why people like this place.
An artichoke heart served with a few of its softened bitter leaves and miso vinaigrette makes a great palette cleanser, while the crab raviolo ‘special’ with lemon, ricotta, chilli and an ‘oozy’ egg yolk is akin to Margot Robbie’s outfit at the London Barbie premiere. Meaning: nice, but it could lose the unnecessary fluff (egg yolk), which is purely Instagram fodder. (I mean, there’s even a competition to ’gram it and win a voucher advertised on the menu.) The crinkled ribbons of lightly sauced reginette with taut tenderstem broccoli, sweet, lightly tangy sunshine-ripened tomatoes and smoked scamorza, however, is pure unctuous decadence, and so clearly worth the sprint up the street. The best bit? I’m in and out in just over 30 minutes. Alas, this is the type of place I’d dine at all the time... if only I could slip right in.
