And another one?

da Polpo is like the old friend you can rock up to anytime and are guaranteed a great conversation. Like the other restaurants in Russell Norman’s stable, da Polpo is cosy, easy and approachable. I find nothing more uncomfortable than a restaurant on edge – week one, new staff, new menu, forgotten service sequences, the smell of paint, and table tops that shine a bit too much. What I love most about Polpo, Polpetto, Spuntino and now da Polpo is how they manage to look and feel lived in, even when brand new.

Most things about this place will remind you of Polpo. One has a Campari Bar, the other an Aperol one. Both bacaros use a lot of natural finishes, have distressed walls, tiled flooring and bar counters you can eat at – the single diner’s most favourite seat.

                     

I even got lucky with my waitress; Tajsa (am near certain I’ve got this spelling wrong) wasted no time in settling me in and starting me off with a glass of the Polpo Prosecco (£5) – OMG so delicious – and some complimentary sesame cream cheese and bread.  (I’m still not sold on the fashion of wine being served in non-wine glasses.)

The menu is also a lot like Polpo’s. I started with the arancini (£2.50) – the gooey cheese centre makes these crispy balls of rice divine, even if lacking a little something. Next was the asparagus, taleggio and parma ham pizzetta (£6.50). The cheese and ham may get too salty for some but I loved this baby pizza.

I finished with a fresh tomato salad (£5) and a glass of the Polpo Merlot (£2.75). Maybe the combination was wrong but I won’t rush to order this wine again.

    

I skipped dessert , promising the superb staff that I would return for some. Soon. Last week I wrote about Spuntino – THE ONE restaurant I knew I would have a long romance with. Today I walked into another ONE. Amongst too many other things, Bollywood is where I first learnt and loved the idea of THE ONE. (It was most likely Rishi Kapoor & Dimple Kapadia’s teenage romance Bobby.)

We’ve all grown up since then and while I may still look for the Bollywood moments in my life, I’ve changed what The One means to me – ever so slightly. I now have:

• The One who got away – and Thai Green Curry
• The One who was always going to hurt me – and Pytt I Panna
• The One I still think about – and Vegemite sandwiches
• The One I didn’t really care about – and strawberry cheesecake

And then there is THE 5months-14days-8hours- andafewminutes ONE.

-p

Black or white?

East London’s restaurants are better prepared for single diners compared to their West End counterparts. Walking into Pizza East can be intimidating. The restaurant used to be a grimy bar that used to be a warehouse. If you ignore the smiley waiters, wood fired ovens and designer tables you could easily mistake it for an old factory floor. But where Pizza East loses with the tired exposed ducting it more than makes up for with some of my favourite restaurant features – leather button-banquettes, an open kitchen, hardwood floors and counter seating.

Sexy Italian wasted no time getting me settled when I said “Just me please”. He led me to the counter, asked me about my day and went on to chat about his until the waiter was ready to take over. I’d been walking a while and was thirsty! Tap water, fresh orange juice (£2.75) and a Bloody Mary (£7) – I’m set. The clam pizza I had heard so much about is no longer on the menu. Sexy Italian comes back to explain that in spite of great reviews their diners didn’t quite take to fish on their pizza. Pity! He helped me choose a soft polenta appetizer (topped with spicy, deep-fried chicken liver £5) and a Gorgonzola Pizza (£10).

I’m ravenous and my appetizer arrives just before I kick up a fuss. The polenta glides like warm butter around my mouth, and the light crunch of the deep fried batter gives way to creamy, perfect chicken livers. So much bliss in such a small plate.

The waiter comes over and asks me if I would like a newspaper. “No thanks, I brought my own.” After scanning the front page I usually jump to the weekend paper’s Agony Aunt column. The pizza arrives and I chew on a letter from Betrayed Betty. She found out that her best friend knew about her husband’s affair and kept it from her. Now she doesn’t know whether she “should” forgive her friend or not.

It isn’t scandalous to presume that, responding to our wavering moral centre, we advise Betrayed Betty to forgive. Really? Is that what we would do?

Would have, could have, should have – I work hard not to use these words in any sentence about my own life. This doesn’t mean that I have no regrets… of course I do! However, I have made my peace with these regrets and refuse to let the tyranny of ‘would’, ‘could’ and ‘should’ destroy any more days. All regrets except one.

Four years ago I was party to a secret that affected someone I knew. (Let’s call her Mrs A). A secret I kept from my close friend who had known Mrs A for twenty years. Mrs A had known me for eight. I met my close friend twelve years ago. There were reasons why I should have told my friend about the secret; but several more reasons why I could not. High up on the list was a fear that I would lose my friend. More often than not it is the messenger that suffers the consequences; nobody likes to be the bearer of bad news and I am no exception. More importantly, I had not quite resolved the secret in my head.

It was my secret to tell, and not my friend’s to share – would she understand this? Also, would telling this secret be good for anyone? Not for Mrs A; her life as she knew it would come to an end. Not for my friend; who would have to forever bear the burden of having caused her friend great pain, no matter how noble her intentions. And definitely not for me. For the first time in a long time I did not believe that honesty was the best policy, and my black and white world was cloudy with too many shades of gray.

I recently took the decision to tell my friend about the secret. It was as horrible as I had imagined. But together, over many, many spoonfuls of chocolate fudge, we decided it was the better decision – my having waited to tell her, and for both of us deciding not to tell Mrs. A. We knew that we were now both guilty of keeping a secret that really should be exposed. There it is again – “should”. Does having someone share your burden make it lighter? Not this time I’m afraid.

-p

p.s. See how good the pizza looks? It should have tasted fantastic. It did not.