I’ve been told that when you meet “the one”, nothing else matters. That when you meet “the one”, the world around you blends into a deliriously gay pastel mess but you don’t care. Because there in front of you, in striking focus, is “the one”, crystal clear in all their beauty and it’s all you can do to contain your urge for just one touch, one taste.
When this happens, you know you’re in love.
Or lust. Whatever.
I know it sounds like an urban legend, like something that only happens to “other people” because believe me when I say awesome stuff that happens to other people never happen to me (ok ok, except for that one time when I won a holiday but seriously? That was all karmic energy mishmash because the universe remembered when I was that desperate that I caught a taxi to the beach and decided that hey, let’s give this girl a fucking break and by “a fucking break” I mean “a holiday to Egypt” but that’s not what we’re here to talk about).
Right. Where were we?
Oh yes, so it’s an urban legend this love [lust] at first sight, right? I thought so too but WRONG. It’s real, it exists, it came right up to me and bit me square in the ass on Wednesday night.
Introducing Bocca di Lupo’s brioche sandwich of pistachio, chestnut and hazelnut gelati. Or as I like to call it, The Ice Cream Burger.
“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…”
And I’m now quoting Shakespeare. Love does this to you, man.
… the clean and eclectic salad of shaved radish, celeriac & pecorino salad with pomegranets and truffle oil…
… to the delightfully fresh and sweet crudita di mare (raw sea bream, red prawn, langoustine & scallop with rosemary oil)…
… the immensely meaty rustic pork & foie gras sausage with farro & porcini…
… to the fat and juicy grilled scallops with gremolata…
… and the orecchiette with ‘nduja (extremely spicy home made salame), red onion & fresh tomato, which yes it was spicy indeed.
For dessert we shared the bombe calde, a freshly fried donut with chocolate cream…
But love (or maybe it was deep, throbbing, dirty lust) didn’t hit me til I laid eyes on this, my heaven, my everything, my goddamn ice cream burger.
In all of my years of existence, in my all of my journeys and pilgrimages (like, when I went to Rome to eat gelato), no one had ever presented me with the gloriousness that is not one, not two but three scoops of gelato ensconced within two sweet, fluffy and perfectly crumbly pieces of brioche.
It came to me. Laissez Fare dissolved into the pastel surroundings and I, I only had eyes for the burger and my urgency to touch it, to bite it, to linger slowly in each mouthful. It was all too much, I surrendered to carnal desire and gave myself to the burger.
But I took a photo first. I mean, what kind of food blogger would I be if I didn’t?
Bocca di Lupo
12 Archer Street
Soho, W1D 7BB
0207 734 2223