One of my good friends from London came to visit me recently. Being vegan and an active member in their online community, she had heard:
‘You can’t go to Birmingham and not go to Mr Singhs’
Most of my family, being vegetarians, have long been fans of Mr Singhs Pizza. My grandma loves it because its all vegetarian and that means no meat has ever entered its kitchens, my cousin loves it because they can make most of their menu vegan and my other relatives love it because they can get ‘spicy’ pizza with coriander and paneer on it. Its reasonably priced, clean and, given its Handsworth location, even has some surprisingly tasteful exposed brickwork.
Despite all of this, I have never been the least bit curious to check the place out. In fact, the more people raved about it, the more it made me determined to never go. Now, before you all hastily label me pretentious and never visit this site again, please, please, let me explain myself. It’s not entirely my fault, I promise!
I used to appreciate American style deep dish pizza. More than appreciate, I actually liked the stuff, aspired to eat it even. When I was in my mid-teens, I enjoyed a visit to the Pizza Hut buffet as much as the next man/woman/child. I craved it, looked forward to it, immensely enjoyed it and then experienced all those emotions again when it was time to eat the cold leftovers the day after.
In my university days, I discovered the semolina covered doughy goodness of Dominoes Pizza (big up good old Two for Tuesday always saving the day). There was something about the way the cheese stretched and pulled as you picked a slice off the soggy cardboard, the way the bright red grease pooled inside the little curls of pepperoni and, of course, the utter satisfaction of dunking the great big wodges of leftover crust into the too good to be true Garlic & Herb dip.
I’m not sure when it happened but then slowly, something changed.
I wish I could pin down my pizza turning point (lets call it the PTP), but I don’t think it exists as an arbitrary point in time. I wish I could tell you that I had a religious experience when I took my first bite of a proper pizza in Naples and vowed never to put anything else in my mouth again because nothing else would ever compare. But I think in reality it was more of a journey (even though that first Napoli pizza was pretty damn good)
I think its because I began to eat more pizza, and the more pizza I ate, the more it interested me. I started to prefer Pizza Express to Pizza Hut, then happened to move to London at the same time as the sourdough pizza revolution hit and places like Franco Manca and Pizza Pilgrims became hard to avoid. I took a pizza making class at E5 Bakehouse and couldn’t believe how few ingredients it took to create the perfect mouthful.
Now I knew what San Marzano tomatoes were and the difference between buffalo mozzarella and just mozzarella, I started looking for leopard spotted bottoms and soggy middles and actually went on a quest (yes, I believe it was quite noble) to find and eat Londons best pizza.
To my surprise, I even started shunning the condiments. Today, I believe the mark of a good pizza is if you ate the whole pizza and even the crusts without feeling the need to dip them in anything.
(Side note before my nearest and dearest start coming at me: Chilli oil is the ONLY acceptable pizza accoutrement)
‘All those condiments are just sad, it means your food isn’t good enough on its own’
The wise wise words of my father
So hopefully that explains it, I went on a frikking journey. I had experienced a multitude of different pizzas. Ones that had made me feel things and taste things that I thought to be impossible from flour, yeast and tomatoes. Lets face it, after all that, going to Mr Singhs to eat plastic cheese on a paving slab of tasteless dough with some fake meat on it was never going to float my boat. But in the spirit of being open minded and a good host to my friend that travelled all this way to see me, I summoned some enthusiasm and we gave it a go. Let me tell you, float my boat it most certainly did NOT (although I have to say the curly fries were pretty on point).
Go ahead, call me a ‘pizza snob’, call me ‘patronising’, look around in contempt and ask yourselves ‘who the hell does she think she is?’. I totally deserve it. I fully appreciate that I’m a privileged twat.
But, you know what, in the end it’s just sad. Sad that I can’t derive enjoyment or satisfaction anymore from a Pizza Hut buffet or from a Two for Tuesday or even a paneer tikka coriander covered Mr Singhs. I’m ruined for life, my older and wiser tongue is like a bitter old lady and all she does is complain about most of the pizza she eats because it just.isn’t.good.enough.
Here’s a little advice – fuck refining your palate. It doesn’t need it, you are better off not knowing your food is mediocre. You’ll be happier and richer for it.
