Ed eats

Three Black Sheep
Triq is-Sidra,
Swieqi
Tel: 2133 3456

Food: 7/10
Service: 7/10
Ambience: 6/10
Value: 10/10
Overall: 7/10

As a lover of good stories, I’m often the victim of products that have much more story than substance. In broad terms, the most attractive products that make it to the market are those that have a very carefully crafted story about them. This is reflected in the name, packaging and advertising. If the storytellers have a done a good job, chances are that I’ll be drawn to that product like a moth to a flame.

It was Italian discipline, rather than Maltese exuberance, at work

I’m pretty sure that I spend much more than I should on the stuff I surround myself with thanks to this. The sheer popularity of the shiny objects I get my hands on means that I’m not alone.

Countless individuals around the globe, just as easily swayed by a good story, part with their cash and overpay for products that have been included in this story. “Buy me,” screams the packaging, “and your life will be instantly transformed”.

And so a wonderful market is created, with the storytellers weaving their tales in the form of good design and adequate function and hordes of us at the other end happily making their lives infinitely better by purchasing the result. Or so we believe.

At the end of every story is a moral. This can be broadly divided into post-purchase guilt, and therefore disappointment, or satisfaction with the purchase.

A couple of weeks ago, while driving through Swieqi, I spotted a sign that said Three Black Sheep. I peeked further and it looked like a restaurant. I found the name strangely intriguing. So many restaurants are named by people who have as much imagination as a lamp post that my attention was suddenly drawn to the place. I’m such a sucker, I thought, as I do about five times a day. Three words in an unlikely sequence and the promise of a deeper meaning and here I am wanting to know more.

Then I got back to whatever people around me planned for me and the poor little sheep were swept to some dark recesses of my mind. Until, that is, my phone played a rather ominous ringtone. One of my brothers called and asked if we could meet up for a quick pizza one evening. There was something he needed to discuss, he had an hour to do so, and that same hour was the only time available for him to have dinner.

Three Black Sheep, I replied. So he repeated himself, clearly preferring to think that he hadn’t been clear rather than ponder the possibility that I’d suddenly lost the plot. I gave more detail and we met at a rather early 7pm.

We had no idea what we were in for so we thought we’d sneak a look at the menu and if it looked scary we’d venture to more familiar pastures. The pizza menu looked quite respectable and we were sold with the very last item on it. Pizza Three Black Sheep. The description stated that they hadn’t quite figured out what this would be but they were working on it. The story takes a twist, I thought. And we walked right in.

Quite predictably there was no one inside the restaurant this early. Absolutely no one. We toured the place, exploring the vast innards that seem to stretch all the way to the shore, and there was no one in sight. The modest exterior is deceiving. This place can probably host a wedding reception, outdoor terrace and all.

My brother took to delicately screaming “Hello!” all around the place until a man walked out to greet us. He was smart and friendly and happy to show us to a table and bring menus over. So far they’re printed on plain white paper but he said they’ll have proper ones soon enough.

He recommended the pizza, proudly proclaiming his pizzaiolo to be Italian. He didn’t have to twist our arms and we ordered a Calabrese and a Calzone, with a couple of soft drinks to wash that down.

The decor is interesting. It looks like there is a farming theme going on, with metal buckets used as lampshades and those faux vegetable arrangements that were all the rage in Victorian times.

The walls have been treated to look like a rubble wall is peeking through perfect plaster in some areas, trying to seal in the rustic theme. Then a massive pair of speakers appear and thwart the attempt.

No sooner had our jovial host taken our orders, than another man turned up with a couple of squares of focaccia that were nicely salted and seasoned. They were cold and a little oily but we appreciated them no end. Then the music started. Unchained Melody poured out of those huge speakers, luckily at a very reasonable volume, and we felt like we were on a date as the most righteous of brothers dolefully poured their hearts out.

We looked at each other in bemused surprise as song after song played, taking us on a ‘very best of’ the last century. Every time our host walked past he was quietly singing the song that was playing, evidently enjoying it, and our discussion turned to what music we would inflict upon our patrons were we to own a restaurant. My brother said he’d go with Bob Dylan and Neil Young. I suppose he also intends to dispense Prozac to any potential patrons.

Within minutes our pizza arrived and it looked the part. The Calabrese, with spicy sausage and blue cheese on it, was generously decked out and had a very thin and very dry base in the Calabria style of pizza.

My Calzone was not overly packed with ingredients, showing that it was Italian discipline, rather than Maltese exuberance, at work. The slightly oily surface gave the dough an almost fried texture but it was so thin that this never got in the way.

The Calabrese is intense, probably more intense that I’m prepared to settle for when eating an entire pizza, but a slice was enough for me to enjoy the assault without having to throw in the towel.

We ordered espresso when we were done, as I normally do after a pizza to keep myself alert enough to make it home. To be fair, the pizza was surprisingly light and we didn’t feel like someone had sat on our stomachs. Then our host paid us a visit to ask us about our meal and offer us a limoncello. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered a single course valued at €7 and had a liqueur thrown into the bargain. We accepted and, while sipping the limoncello, I asked about the name.

It turns out that both owners consider themselves black sheep for some reason or another. What about the third one? They figured ‘Three Black Sheep” sounded better than ‘Two Black Sheep’ so they picked the name, knowing a third partner with the right characteristics would turn up at some point.

By the end of it we each paid €10 for a decent pizza, a drink and a coffee, having been treated to a limoncello and friendly service. Perhaps the Three Black Sheep are there to show the sceptics that even some of the more entertaining stories can turn out to have substance in the end.

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