Ed eats

Margo’s
23, St George’s Road,
St Julian’s
Tel: 2762 7467

Food: 5/10
Service: 6/10
Ambience: 8/10
Value: 6/10
Overall: 6/10

I recall being in Copenhagen a very long time ago and seeing a massive Carlsberg advert. It was one of those long, green, outdoor-type ads that spanned half the city (maybe a little less than half) and boasted that Carlsberg is probably the best lager in the world.

The Calzone leaked liquid, wetting the base and setting the pile of rucola afloat

This was so long ago that Noma only had one Michelin star and Carlsberg have since changed their slogan, originally voiced by the formidable Orson Welles back in the 1970s.

My reaction was mixed. I admired the humility while wondering what sort of brand would spend that much money on an ad that size and stop short of proclaiming itself the absolute best at what it does.

If you’re the best, then you’re entitled to speak from a position of arrogant certainty. Think of “Enjoy Coca-Cola”. It is almost an order. You will drink this beverage and you will enjoy it. That’s certainty.

Then there are humble brands. The ones that whisper quietly in your ear when you least expect it; the ones that humbly seek your attention and wait patiently until you decide it is time to give them a shot.

The world’s number-three brand is IBM. Chances are you haven’t seen an IBM ad during the past 12 months and yet they’re quite happy that the tech world knows that “no one ever got fired for buying IBM.”

They’re so humble they let their consumers spread a consumer-generated slogan for them. And the slogan is one that arises from unshakeable quality.

To paraphrase (the amazing) Spider-Man, with certainty comes responsibility. If you’re about to communicate your incredibly, outrageously, phenomenally su­perior product or service with such rock-solid conviction, then you’d better be prepared to over-deliver on that promise.

For the past few weeks I’ve driven past a banner that claims that the restaurant beneath it serves what many claim is “the best pizza in the world”. This isn’t the best pizza in St Julian’s, nor is it the best pizza in Malta. It is even better than the best pizza in Europe (and Europe includes Naples). This is the best pizza on a planet with a 40,000-kilometre equatorial circumference.

And if those factions that affirm that the Earth is the only populated planet in the universe are right, then one surmises that this is the best pizza in the universe. I couldn’t possibly die without sampling this pizza.

Off I trotted, two friends in tow, to the holy grail of pizza. The approach by night is quite impressive, with two floors of brightly-lit dining space glowing rather appealingly and displaying an attractive interior.

The restaurant occupies the first and second floors of the building so one must climb up a flight of stairs, briefly punctuated by the sight of a small kitchen within which a young lady tosses pizza dough quite expertly. This must be the place where the best pizza in the world is created.

The menus are quite tattered because they haven’t yet printed fresh ones for the new restaurant, and they’re making do with the ones they use at their Valletta establishment. This is perfectly understandable and I make every sort of allowance for new set-ups.

Reading through the menu, however, is a very painful endeavour. Whoever wrote it has a rather odd grasp of language and considers an adjective-fuelled torrent of superlatives to be the ideal companion to a sickeningly pretentious stream of incoherent descriptions.

This means you have to somehow leap over the low-lying roots of belaboured ingredient descriptions while you machete your way through the treacherous vines of unashamed boasting.

The people I shared a table with, lovers of food and wine in their own right, had to ask what “EVOO” was. Unless you read a particular breed of food-writing, you will not be familiar with the acronym for Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Used locally that is not an acronym. It is a nauseating attempt to make everyone feel stupid. I wasn’t too keen to start a meal on this note but I wasn’t alone and couldn’t exactly walk out on my friends.

One of my friends was all for pizza while the other one cannot eat anything containing wheat so we’d get to taste both the perfect pizza and a non-pizza item.

We also decided against a pizza that costs a minimum of €1,800. While the gloriously expensive white truffle is worth every cent spent on it, we had to be absolutely certain that the pizza was truly the best in the universe before splashing out.

My choice was easy. The Calzone, says the menu, is amazing. “You have never ever ever seen or tasted such an amazing Calzone in your life,” (sic, grammar and all) the description states, a mere entrée to the hyperbole. Then there is a non-sequitur about pageantry and a list of ingredients. Everyone at table will be jealous, it goes on to assure me. How can I order anything else?

The pizza-eating friend picked the Capricciosa, possibly the pizza with the most humble description. The menu states it is making an elegant return, although I was never aware it had gone anywhere.

The non-pizza eating friend settled for the rack of ribs. We ordered a beer each (and wine for the non-wheat friendly) and sat back, reeling from the exhaustion of navigating the menu.

The restaurant has been done up quite tastefully and the front of house is staffed by a handful of people who seem to hail from all over Europe and have a correspondingly erratic grasp of English. They did an acceptable, if perfunctory, job of taking orders and serving drinks.

Our pizzas were served quite quickly, especially considering that there were very few empty chairs in sight. We waited for almost a minute until our rib-eating companion begged us to start, lest the pizza lost its temperature. There was not much risk of that with my Calzone but the Capricciosa was already cold.

As soon as I cut into the Calzone it leaked liquid into the plate, promptly wetting the base and setting the pile of rucola that accompanied it afloat. The dough, a sourdough base, is soft and quite lovely but I had to juggle quite a bit to keep it away from the liquid that kept seeping out of the pizza.

The ricotta, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes and salsiccia are nicely balanced but there is much more rucola inside there than there ought to be, so its rather overpowering, bitter taste took over and made certain that it would leave a lasting impression.

Meanwhile, all was not well with the ribs. Served in a deep bowl, these proved impossible to cut and eat so we put the struggle to an end by asking for a shallow plate. Once transferred, the cutting and sawing resumed in earnest.

The ribs were half-cooked and tasted awful so we had to send them back. Such was the disgust of the poor rib-eater that the meal ended on that unpleasant and abrupt note.

With Ryan’s serving the best ribs on the planet just a few hundred metres away, I’m surprised they even bother having this dish on the menu.

The Capricciosa was good. Well above the average pizza, the base was dry and never crisp, in the true Neapolitan fashion. The ingredients are quite roughly cut and spread around, lending a very rustic appeal.

I was dying for a slice but there was no way I was letting it get anywhere near my plate for fear that it would go the same way as the Titanic, so I just picked up a slice and ate it. Those were the best 30 seconds of my meal.

We asked for the bill and my attempts to pay with a card were futile. They don’t accept cards and never will. This is 2013. We have cars and the internet and running water. We also have banks and bankcards. Refusing these, especially in St Julian’s, is a level of arrogance that leaps over the statement about the best pizza on the planet.

Well, it isn’t. It won’t be. And I’m not rooting around for cash again to pay for being insulted.

You can send e-mails about this column to ed.eatson@gmail.com or follow @edeats on Twitter.

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