Honest Italian

Taste London's Best Wood-Fired Pizza!

In the sultry heart of Balham exists a place unremarkable to the untrained eye — a pint-sized pizzeria, contentedly nestling under the grandeur of more garish establishments, like a kitten sidestepping polished lions outside showy exhibition halls. Within, Honest Italian radiates a warmth reminiscent of a long-lost Mediterranean holiday, blessed with twinkling smiles and a stout-hearted ambiance that dovetails seamlessly into the spirit of convivial simplicity us critics have been trained to savor. Stepping inside rekindles fond memories of crowded Italian trattorias, designed to bind visitors into kinfolk. Naturally, my inner sceptic cranked itself to high. ‘Let’s see if this pasta party serves anything other than unyielding curiosities’ I mused as our party assembled around heavy oak tables split for either intimacy or bravado, sizes adjustable like ego consequences at an art auction.

As pizzaiolos feverishly prepared handcrafted pies, saving my starving soul from the trappings of impending doom, watching each pie—lightly kissed by olive oil—vanish into the blazing depths of the wood-fired oven had its charms. Curdled expectations made way for genuine surprise as those pies emerged and bathed our palates with unabashed, vibrant flavors hitherto latent on our scorecards. The Margherita spoke of tomatoes sang in dulcet tones and basil wandered across those rich flavors with disdainful nonchalance. Meanwhile, a cheeky drizzle of spicy chili oil on the Diavola engaged in cunning dogfight with our senses, proving it is a must-return kind of fire without a siren alert. The staff, unflinchingly genial and overwhelmingly attentive, pirouetted between tables dotting everyone with timely indulgence, whilst deftly ignoring occasional judgmental glances at nearby balmy takeaways piled ignominiously high. The evening climaxed with a clandestine tryst alongside ancient infectious classics like Tiramisu which whispered yeasts amid espresso-laden dreams with quiet slow chants of farewell. Balham’s delightful secret left me tipsy on happiness, promising—and much to rightful surprise—to revisit these wonder beasts of Honest Italian beneath cloudy skies soon again. — Penelope Savory