Bing Bong Pizza, Morning Lane, food review: ‘Stuffed after six slices’
‘Slabs of pie.’ Photograph: courtesy Bing Bong Pizza
When is a pizza joint not a pizza joint? No, this isn’t a Schrödinger’s domed oven deal. It’s more of a question on the nature of the food scene, answered audaciously by Bing Bong Pizza.
You Call The Shots (YTCS) is an egalitarian bar that has been rebranded and open since January. It is crouching across from The Temple of Seitan, Hackney Empire, and just down the road from Big Night. This is the axis where fake chicken, fake narratives, and very real yakitori collect.
YCTS is an eclectic mix of Pat Butcher’s living room and a 1930s Soho brothel. Complete with leopard print carpet, chocolate-coloured bar and walls, velvet curtains, eye-level disco ball in one corner, and red-lit toilets.
Louche informal dinner with your impossibly barrel-jeaned friends to a synthy funk soundtrack? Where do we sign! There’s even a big Arthurian table where you can all cluster around discussing FKA Twigs’ new album. Don’t say I don’t offer useful advice sometimes.
Rich Goodwin promises New York nonna-style ‘pies’, and despite my constant battling against the misappropriation of the word, it seems to be sticking.
Goodwin is neither a grandmother nor, according to my quick Google search, Italian, but when did that ever stop anyone experimenting with food? The “pizza king” has an impressive resumé in the Italian hospitality world, ranging from Liverpool to Copenhagen.
Circling back to my original question: when does a pizza joint not feel like a pizza joint? Well, when you are offered the opportunity to buy by the slice. But no, hold on, this isn’t the tiny slivers you cut yourself at home, anaemic and drooping. Thin crust be gone! These are slabs of pie (shudder).
Grate taste. Photograph: courtesy Bing Bong Pizza
But what do you get? Well, humour for one. A handwritten note mentions that the special asparagus pizza should not be referred to as the ‘asparagussy’, as if people were actually calling it that. Wild garlic pesto, mozzarella, Lincolnshire poacher and the aforementioned vegetable, liquified into a hulk-colour mess, creamy but mottled by pine nuts. It’s as satin and silky as food can get.
April O’Neil is smushed with squash purée, adding flecks of sunset, salsa verde, fennel, salami and sage – a wise and slightly sweet dish fit for the female ally of the Ninja Turtles.
Lastly, for those with ears last summer, Mercer On The Dancefloor has sage and crisp vinegar mushrooms like tiny felt hats, but again little reference to the Sophie Ellis Bextor hit.
The less shouty numbers on the menu are still pretty feisty. The vegan tomato is mounded with pangrattiato gratings, the pepperoni is bouncy, and the margherita has an equally stodgy comforting hug in every massive mouthful.
Everything can be personalised with hot honey (pour liberally over your date’s hand and get freaky), garlic and herb, red hot or salsa verde dips.
Sitting back shell-shocked, the table dusted with flecks of Spenwood cheese (which we are informed is a British version of pecorino), we are stuffed after only six slices.
There is no dessert, but lethal frozen drinks plug that hole. The absinthe piña colada certainly has a noticeable wink of the green fairy, and a paloma is served in a hazardous American red cup.
We avoid the shots as my friend is sober, and even for me it’s only a Wednesday, but they have multiple ingredients and look charmingly life-ruining.
Yes, Bing Bong might overuse the word “pie” and calls dip “dippies”, and yes, an evening on the tiles will set you back a fair whack even if your friend sticks to non-alcoholic beer. But for a chance to snaffle and sample the whole menu in gloriously sleazy surroundings, Bing Bong-it and you’re done.