There is a definite low-level buzz to Pizza East – being checked in by the Grace Jones look-alike at the door was enough to make us feel special. “You here for pizza’? she quizzed us, squinting at a list. I later discovered in a woozy wander downstairs to find some fags that there is a smart-looking bar in the basement. It’s a far cry from the T-Bar which was the place’s grubby previous incarnation.
Joining in the scrum at the check-in desk with the other hopefuls who’d booked added to the air of exclusivity, but the feeling of being underdressed for the occasion disappeared with the waft of yeast and the sight of the wood fired oven burning merrily in the restaurant kitchen. The décor is predictably low-key Shoreditch chic with scrubbed woodwork and exposed pipes, as is the clientele – moustaches and oversized glasses provide any embellishment the place lacks. The soundtrack is low but insidious and caters to the 20something crowd - I never thought I would end up desperately Googling the lyrics to an overheard Jimmy Somerville song when I got home, but such is the power of a good ambience.
We were seated a nicely secluded table with a pleasant view of Jonathan Rhys Meyer (cue drunken dribbling – us, not him). I’ve been meeting up with these two girlfriends for supper once a month for over eight years and you can never predict the sound levels or topics of conversation. We work for the same company, started off in the same department but never see each other outside these evenings, apart from the odd harried hello, which gives these suppers a cloistered, cosy feel. Tonight there is a black veil over the evening – the light shines through, but the tone is definitely dark. Over talk of Yorkshire, depression and the (lighter) joys of fancying someone so much you can’t look them in the face, we fell like gannets on our starters. The sheep milk ricotta bruschetta was a fresh breath of spring topped with lamb’s lettuce and a drizzle of honey. Butter-soft shreds of mozzarella with taggiasa olives (no idea either - but tasted delicious) followed along with calamari with a novel caper aioli, which was scraped clean long before the squid was eaten. Our pizzas were richly tomato-ey and generously topped, but tardy – however our crush-worthy, bespectacled waiter brought us a plate of meats over to compensate. They didn’t last long either.
The biggest hit of the evening however was the salted caramel tart, which we attacked like sharks, eyes rolled back in sugar lust. It was gone in five seconds, leaving us licking our lips and feeling slightly dirty.
The only disappointment was the wine – I’m an unabashed Chardonnay fan but we were served an unpleasant acidic specimen which we were assured ‘tastes great with pizza’. It didn’t. I would recommend stoking up at the fabulous Green & Red a few doors down first….after all, pizza is a good sop for booze, right?
