I don’t know how the name of this restaurant is pronounced. Is it ‘to-zy’, to rhyme with ‘cosy’? Or is it ‘tot-zi’, to rhyme with ‘hot-sy’? Or perhaps even ‘too-zy’, which gives it an irresistible connection to ‘floozy’? Either way, none of these concerns especially matter. If a restaurant is good – as Tozi very much is – then it can be called practically anything under the sun and be guaranteed a staunch clientele. I can’t see anyone going to The Fat Duck and complaining as they leave that they weren’t suffered a fattened bird. If a restaurant is useless, then the name barely matters, save as somewhere to be remembered with the occasional shudder of horror in years to come.
In fact, ‘the horror…the horror’ is all too appropriate a geographical – if not culinary – term for Tozi, as the restaurant is situated in Victoria’s Gillingham Street, just opposite the house where Joseph Conrad once lived. Thankfully a trip here is merely a short walk from either Pimlico or Victoria stations, rather than a catastrophic venture into the heart of darkness, and it was there that I met up with the not-so-secret agents of the Arbuturian, Larry and Jonesy, for what promised to be a splendid lunchtime repast.
First impressions of the room are slightly mixed. It’s a big, impressive space – large enough for everyone from princes and Lord Jims to anarchists and informers – but it has a slightly unfinished quality to it, as if the big, capacious walls needed a few more images to brighten them up a bit. It’s also the sort of place that needs to be really busy and bustling to completely come alive, rather than the shadow line-like clientele of a Thursday lunchtime. However, there’s an appealing New York-esque energy and bustle to the staff, who are uniformly charming and friendly, and all too keen to offer a (delicious) bellini and a glance at the menu.
It is fair to say that Larry, Jonesy and I are all essentially generous and compassionate people, but we were all faintly flummoxed by the cichetti-like offerings that Tozi specialises in, which essentially comes down to a sort of Italian tapas. Divided into everything from ‘wood oven’ and ‘fritti’ to ‘pasta’ and ‘grill’, there’s an almost bewildering variety of choice, but the idea is that food is ordered to share between as many people are dining, and around three dishes per person is the recommended amount. This could encompass anything from pasta, meat and fish to cheese, pizza and salad depending on personal inclination – or the smile of fortune. We looked at one another with intent. A duel, of sorts, was clearly about to begin.
We ordered not wisely, but too well. We considered that it would have been rude to have neglected any section of the menu, so we did not do so, and then we took the charming manager’s recommendations. (Oddly, one of the specials of the day, ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers, was one of the least interesting things we ate, with the ricotta being far too hot and the whole thing being faintly flavourless.) But most of what we sampled was both unusual and inspiring; a twist on the usual pizza, a ‘spianata’ of aubergine, ricotta and pancetta, was delectable, and, at £9.75, sensibly priced compared to how dear some ‘alternative’ spins on the humble standby of bread, cheese and tomato can be, and an unctuously creamy dish of burrata with heritage tomatoes and basil was the best of Italian fare without the journey there.
The warrior’s soul had to be summoned up in order to continue through the dozen or so dishes that we ordered, but thanks to the not-so-secret sharer approach that we had adopted, most of them went down extremely well. We were aided in our gastronomic outpost of progress by the well-chosen wine list, with a rather splendid bottle of Sardinian Vermentino aiding us in what might otherwise have been something of a trial by combat between man and food. Highlights were too eclectic to pick, but by the relief that small and delectable puddings brought – Larry looked particularly happy with his Tozi affogato – we were all more than replete, having valiantly eaten ourselves through the typhoon of plates and glasses that were on our table.
As we surfaced, fully satisfied and happy, we nodded approvingly at one another. Victory had been reached, and we were glad that Tozi had proved itself in no uncertain terms. We also suspected that, were Joe Conrad still knocking about under western eyes, he’d have been one of the first to be delighted that such an elegant place – albeit not one for brutes or idiots – had come to the rescue of an area that has often felt like the outcast of the islands when it came to high-end dining. For which relief, much hearty thanks.
Tozi. 8 Gillingham Street, London SW1. For more information and bookings visit the website or call 020 7769 9771.
