The first thing to say about L’Anima is that it’s a bugger to find. Wandering haplessly around the warren of roads and streets lurking behind Liverpool Street, I am uncomfortably reminded of Alice, forever pursuing the White Rabbit with little success. However, once ensconced behind one of the seats in the all-white, minimalist bar, I am contentedly sipping their equivalent of a Moscow mule, complete with rhubarb vodka, and then I see Larry wandering up and down frantically outside, for all the world as if he’s an MI6 agent trying to find his contact. I decide it would be unsporting to let him down. The iPhone 6 is picked up, and a call made. ‘I’ve been expecting you, Mr White…’
Thankfully within a matter of moments we are in the main dining room observing the scene. Since its opening some time in the middle of the last decade, L’Anima has managed to remain consistently at the top level of London’s Italian restaurants, despite a change in its head personnel. Gone is its founder Francesco Mazzei, who will soon be revitalising the previously moribund Sartoria on Savile Row; stepping more than capably up to replace him is Antonio Favuzzi, Mazzei’s more than capable lieutenant. His influences are more Sardinian, slightly quirkier than the classical Italian cooking that Mazzei specialised in but up to the same impeccable standards as before. Larry and I look at one another, the menu, and a conspiratorial smile passes between us. This is going to be a sumptuous repast, and no mistake.
And so it proves. Rather than stick to the usual antipasti-primi-secondi-dolci mode of ordering, Favuzzi has a more ambitious plan in store for us, involving a lightning-fast tour between courses and flavours, mounting in intensity and style. We begin with langoustine and prawn ravioli in lobster broth, which we admire more for its ambition and technique than for the taste; touches of aniseed are interesting rather than entirely necessary for the dish, and the broth somewhat overwhelms the rest. But this is the only thing that either of us is even slightly lukewarm about. Thereafter, unusual and innovative ideas and dishes abound. Home-made Malloreddus, a sort of black, cylindrical pasta that looks like little caterpillars – in the nicest possible way – is a palpable hit, as is beetroot tortelli with smoked burrata, which causes Larry to do a quasi-rain dance of excitement and satisfaction. In between mouthfuls, he opines ‘This really is buenissima’. ‘Wrong language, old boy.’ ‘Oh. The thought still stands.’
We realise by about 2.30 that most of the other diners have left, presumably to scurry back to their banking towers for multi-million pound deals. Having no such obligations, we make the acquaintance of the sommelier, a friendly, eager-to-please sort who proves adept at matching a fine selection of unusual and interesting vintages with everything we try. It’s a mighty list, but we make some decent inroads into it to accompany our main courses, an as-good-as-Nobu black cod and delicately flavoured pork cheeks. The conspiratorial glances have given way to open exclamations of satisfaction and pleasure by now – ‘Oooh!’ ‘Gosh!’ We feel distinctly English, and my usual restraint has given way to hearty appreciation of what is, by anyone’s standards, some really top-notch cooking in a splendid environment. Once it would have seemed futuristic, but now the impeccable design – all glass and stone walls – seems a riposte to many high-end New York restaurants of this sort, which are no more interesting than L’Anima.
Dessert comes first surreptitiously, in the form of a pear sorbet – we have a good-natured argument whether this constitutes a course or merely a respite – and then with what Favuzzi cheerfully calls ‘my favourite dish’ on the entire menu. It’s a Sardinian ‘seadas’, a tricky thing to explain; imagine a large, sweet ravioli, stuffed with cheese and then covered in honey and served with nougat ice cream. It might sound unconventional, but it is absolutely delectable, and worth a visit to L’Anima just to sample. Rounded off with a grappa, the meal is finally complete. We look at each other; it is past four. We have been contentedly munching, slurping and chattering away for nearly three hours. This is, undoubtedly, what Nigel Farage would call a PFL.
We leave to much hand-shaking and mutual thanking; anyone would think that we had done them the most grandiose of favours, rather than the other way round. So Larry and I walk through the City, dazed in the best of ways at the sumptuosity of what we have just been privy to.
‘One thing, old boy…’
‘Yes, old chap?’
‘The name. L’Anima. What does it actually mean?’
‘Stumped there, old fruit. I never was much good at Italian.’
‘Ah. That explains a lot.’
It means soul. And, my word, the restaurant has plenty of that.
1 Snowden Street, EC2. www.lanima.co.uk. The restaurant is (intentionally?) hard to find, so don’t be afraid of using whatever technological gizmos you have to steer a path there.
