La Barca
HAVING lived in Italy for some time, I always steer well away from Italian res- taurants here. Good Italian food is about home cooking; and the best Italian res- taurants in Italy still remain faithful to what mama used to make. The Italians may not be culinarily inventive, but their cuisine is not as samey and tomato- obsessed as you'd think from restaurants over here. Spaghetti alle (tinned) vongole, . lasagne and escalopes every which way is the sorriest but the commonest excuse for Italian cooking I can think of.
I went to La Barca in Lower Marsh, just behind Waterloo Station, by accident the first time. Well, less by accident, more because of not having booked at any of the more conspicuous restaurants on the South Bank. I was glad that I went. Elegant it isn't, but there's something comforting about the familiar trattoria decor. La barca means 'the boat', and the nautical motif is manfully kept up throughout' the res- taurant. Past the timbered bar with its 1950s paraphernalia, the slatted flowerpot- cum-baskets for crisps, nuts and other tar snacks' and the bobbled metal and leath- erette stools, the room opens up, its wall festooned with life belts and other seagoing accoutrements.
Luciano and Pasquale, joint owners of La Barca (Pasquale cooks), are proud too of their theatrical connections — the res- taurant is minutes away from the National Theatre and Old Vic — and of attracting diners from both sides of the curtain. Portraits of some of their more illustrious, or once illustrious, customers stare moodi- ly or rakishly down at you as you eat.
The large plasticised menu warrants more respect than you might be inclined to give it, for the cooking of these italic- scripted dishes is good: fresh and authen- tic. I loved the alluringly named uovo purgatorio, eggs baked en cocotte with tomatoes. Penniless, I lived off this for months in Florence and the Waterloo version was just as good. Bresaola — beef's answer to parma ham — with olive oil and lemon and grilled sardines are my other favourite non-farinaceous starters, but I feel here it would be criminal to miss out on the pasta.
Traditionalists will be reassured by the .soothing, nursery comfort of the tagliatelle Carbonara, each strand heavy with creamy sauce. The spiral-shaped fusilli with broc- coli steeped in butter, being a less common choice, is probably the better one — the combination of textures and its peppery butteriness are delicious. But the best has to be their pappardelle alla Vera — broad strips of fresh straw-coloured pasta heaped with a pungent kidney, onion, mushroom and wine sauce.
Main courses can be a bit of a let-down in Italian restaurants. A real test is the liver, to be eaten grilled with sage rather than in the trumped-up Veneziana — with onions and, frankly, gravy. The liver here was impeccable: sweet and soft and cooked perfectly ti point. Praiseworthy also were the bocconcini di polio Sorrentina, chicken escalope with tomato, mozzarella and ore- gano, a sort of poultry-pizza; the scalopPi- na crema funghi — regular, old-fashioned Italian fare — veal smothered in a thick, cholesterol-ridden, cream and mushroom sauce, and anatra al pepe verde, duck in a cream, brandy and green peppercorn sauce, though I found the sauce just a little on the floury side.
But go rather for something more robust: the cotechino con fagioli, spicy Italian sausage with beans cooked in a herby mushy tomato sauce or the sea bass with fennel and pernod, which sounds spurious and finicky, but comes in a wonderfully hearty and fragrant stew. This was by far and away the best choice, as is entirely fitting given the restaurant's sea- faring associations. Puddings are not particularly rewarding. Sadly no zuppa inglese, or English soup, the Italians' imaginative name for trifle, but there is zabaglione at least. They do a version of the San Lorenzo speciality — pancake stuffed with thickened, sweetened, eggy cream and sprinkled with alcohol-steeped macaroons, but along with the rest of the trolley, eating it is a somewhat arduous exercise.
The wine list, with its quaint descrip- tions, is an amusing read and not actually bad at all, but the house wine at £5.40 is a respectable and safe bet. The white, Sette- soli, a Sicilian wine, is preferable to the valpolicella. Prices are standard (which sadly means not cheap) — around £10 a head if you eat three courses and drink moderately, though you'd be well-advised to eat — and pay — less as portions are awesome. And while not a restaurant to cross London for, it is definitely worth a look in if you're nearby and hungry.
Nigella Lawson
Previous page
