Trullo: simplicity as a virtue

Trullo, 300-302 St Paul's Rd, N1 2LH

In the past, I have always found Italian restaurants in London a little disappointing. With the exception of some fine pizzerias, my last two visits to Italian eateries in London have been underwhelming; leaving me with a creeping suspicion that perhaps I just don't fully appreciate the understated virtues of Italian cooking: a reaction at odds with my fond memories of simple but brilliant meals in Italy. This may explain why it has taken me more than a year to find my way to Trullo, despite its Islington location being mere moments from my Dalston haunts. If only I had ventured there sooner, I wouldn't have spent the last year wondering when I stopped loving Italian food. I would have spent it in Trullo.

The forward planning required to secure a table is one of the first indications that Trullo is more than just another decent Italian place. Critical acclaim and sensible pricing no doubt contribute to its popularity but, from what we saw, the food is (rightly) the real draw. Compact and slightly shabby from the outside, it looks like a fairly basic neighbourhood restaurant. Inside is a deceptively light dining room that makes good use of its tiny space and it is clear that the relaxed décor is part of the appeal. It is barely a mile from East London after all: an overly smart dining room just wouldn't work.

We chose one thing from the antipasti selection and two pasta dishes to start. Grilled sardines with a tomato and caper salad were judged to be excellent. Light and unfussy, they were an excellent way to start a summer lunch. However, the proper handmade pastas were the true marvel. Farfalle with peas and pancetta arrived glossy and salty, with perfectly crunchy, freshly-podded peas. However, in what could be a masterclass in elegant simplicity, the tagliatelle with lemon and broad beans was world beating. The lightest, zingiest, slightly buttery lemon sauce clung to the wonky, delicate strands of pasta and complemented the earthy texture of the beans. It was a perfect dish, in that it probably couldn't be bettered, even if it had (say) a giant steak with it.

Main courses were perhaps a little less awesome than the lemon pasta, but were still excellent in their own right. A nicely-roasted poussin, with the puffy skin of a creature cooked in a significant quantity of butter, came with easy but well-matched accompaniments: tarragon, beans and some soft egg. Grilled mackerel was scorched crispy on its skin whilst retaining its internal moisture. However, it was the fantastic panzanella it was served with that made the dish. It had little golden nuggets of fried bread, slippery roasted peppers, chunks of tomatoes tasting of sunshine, a great handful of mint and parsley, olive oil like a freshly mown lawn and those giant green Italian olives that no one seems to sell except that ridiculous place in Borough Market where 3 olives will cost you more than your first car was worth. It was what an average salad aspires to be. 

Plaice, whose culinary handling had probably been limited to a light dredge of seasoning and a short spell in the pan, was served with mushed up courgettes dotted with tiny brown shrimp. It was what Italian food should be - the quality of the ingredients and the success of the flavour combinations making simple, unadorned cooking seem infinitely cleverer and more satisfying than fussy, complicated food frippery.

Then there was dessert, or to be more accurate, there was one dessert that we all coveted. My fig and almond tart, with its delicate, nutty filling giving way to light, crumbly pastry, was beautiful; but it wasn't the caramel panna cotta. It didn't ooze a dark, smoky syrup that tasted faintly of alcohol. It didn't finally make me realise that a pudding can actually wobble indecently, something I'd always thought could only really happen in the mind (or perhaps the kitchen) of Nigella Lawson. My mum, who'd had the foresight to order it, was delighted. The rest of us were jealous. It made all other milk and sugar based puddings look like losers.

With prices for a main course hovering round the £15 mark, it's easy to see why Trullo is so well regarded. I'd struggle to say when I last had such a good Italian meal but I know for certain that it wasn't in London. If I was attached to my Dalston life before, now there's almost nothing that could persuade me to move away from the area; except perhaps a free house... in Rome.