"It takes a special kind of event to warrant a trip to Sergio’s, and on Saturday night that event was a trip Up West to see a newly-formed band called the ‘Wastemen’, formed of four guys including my close friend Ed (he wrote about Mestizo a few months’ back on here). Subsequently, consequently and inevitably, it took a special kind of hangover to order an eighteen-inch white pizza from Basilico the following day… Sergio’s (Great Titchfield Street, Fitzrovia) is one of those off-the-beaten-track trattorie that might just possibly be run by the mob. Or possibly by Peter Andre. Like quite a few Italians, such as my Brizzle-fave San Carlo, or La Caricatura in Mayfair, the walls are festooned with pictures of the big names that have crossed the threshold over the years. In the case of Sergio’s, Andre is certainly winning the battle for wall space, giving the place a kind of feeling not too dissimilar to Jed Maxwell’s creepy Alan Partridge shrine. When Andre was not in view, or currently not slideshowing on the massive telly in the corner of the room, we amused ourselves by working out which of the other famous patrons were current or potential targets of Operation Yewtree. Quite a few, as it turned out. The food at Sergio’s is a lot less controversial. An extensive menu offers everything you could possibly need, such as a tremendous-looking mountain of spinach cannelloni, deep bowls of pasta and generous pizzas. In fairness, any self-respecting Italian needs to feed its punters well (and I suspect that Andre has a mother of an appetite) but the food tasted great too. My pizza, the optimistically-named Sergio Special, marked a watershed moment as the first time I had ever ordered anything in a restaurant named ‘special’, though the toppings of artichoke and Parma Ham were plentiful and the pizza itself was stone-baked to crispy-yet-chewy perfection. Most of us ordered pizza and felt that things were indeed good, all around the table. Our time at Sergio’s was brief, as the Wastemen needed to get off to sound check (tambourines don’t tune themselves, you know) so after a complimentary round of Limoncello (served in flashing, moisture-sensitive shot glasses, natch) we settled up. Everything is surprisingly cheap for a W1 Italian and the service just about about held up to boot. I particularly enjoyed a one-way conversation with the Italian waiter about how he has worked at Sergio’s ‘since he was ten’ and never goes out because he works seventy hours a week (probably a bit more veracity in the latter claim) but he was a nice guy – as passionate as the deep red furnishings in the restaurant – whose cheekiness constantly absolved him of numerous forgotten Peronis. His ‘fishing for tips’, as one co-diner put it, sparked a lovely debate about optional service charge in restaurants, a behaviour which I will vehemently support (if you don’t think the meal deserves it, then grow a pair and complain) particularly in spite of ignorant, mis-informed and downright miserly arguments by some people. But we won’t go there tonight, will we? We left behind Sergio’s and Peter Andre and headed to Jetlag Bar and the Wastemen. After a few too many Hendricks and tonics and one of my mates introducing me to dark rum (damn you, Jodie), the latter stages of the evening became a blur so we’ll fast-forward to Sunday afternoon and a pizza almost as wide as a violently delaminated F1 tyre… For full review visit [hidden link]"
Cauliflower
