Grace and Flavour: Lardo

It’s safe to say my dining habits during the London 2012 Games did little for my taut Jessica Ennis six-pack.

In fairness, the poor dear is probably not happy with all that lean muscle, defined contours and Lycra-clad slinkiness anyway. Pggh, far better the rounded, sturdy Land Girl glow of a woman who spent three weeks supping pints of Goose Island in front of a public house big screen in, cough, Leyton Village.

We’ve had an Olympic-related regeneration, don’t you know. We’re ever so posh. A lot of obscure East London did exceedingly well from the Olympic tremors that shook us for seven years. Gosh, I wish some of the writers who got all sweaty and excited monitoring last year’s riots were equally as in love with the abundance of hope and creativity I trip over every time I leave my front door.

Like recently when two brightly coloured deckchairs appeared outside a building, signifying a new restaurant, close to Mare Street in Hackney. You know, Mare Street, that charming street the Sky News helicopter hovered over last year observing kids smashing the hell out of a betting shop window with planks and golf clubs, while riot police formed quasi-useless siege formations and we all double-locked our front doors. Yes, close to there. But BE NOT AFEAReD (I’m saying that in the tones of Kenneth Branagh playing Isambard Kingdom Brunel in the Opening Ceremony, thighs apart, hands on hips), be NOT afeared, Hackney is doing rather well right now.

The deckchairs heralded the arrival of Lardo, a rather gorgeous Italian hipsterish bistro featuring dazzling charcuterie (fennel pollen salami, cured loin, speck), cocktails (try the Stellaspritz Prosecco with grapefruit liqueur) and fine pizzas appearing from its shiny, disco-ball-shaped oven. I’m sure the oven was a terrific pain to plan and build but it was worth every penny, giving the rather plain industrial room a punch of decadent zing.

I rather loved Lardo when I went recently on a Saturday night. It’s like a better, independent, more intimate Pizza East, and I say that with great warmth, as I think sitting up at one of the bars at Pizza East, Shoreditch, with simple plates of monkfish and broad beans, or clams with bottarga, and a cold glass of Rotari Rosato is one of the nicest, most underrated things to do in London. And Lardo is better than that.

Do beware, the name Lardo, a type of cured fatback with rosemary, may be memorable, but it’s perilous to get into sentences when inviting friends to eat there. ‘Do you fancy going to Lardo?’ said with a slight mumble sounds just like, ‘Oi fatty, you’re always a safe bet for needing dinner, coming out?’

‘Lardo’ is actually a nod towards how the restaurant has selected its own rare breed of Mangalitsa pig, chosen for its lovely, wobbly, creamy fat, plumped up on apples or biscuit crumbs, with which it makes its own black anise pepperoni. Which is all very lovely if you like this type of thing, but I prefer not to know the animal I’m eating’s CV and like to think all pork comes from the same unpleasant-tempered, suicidal pig, not the cheery porker from Babe eating a piece of millionaire shortbread.

Talking of pigs, on my visit to Lardo we put paid to a plate of salumi misti, a fantastic bowl of sweet and sour marinated aubergine, some unctuous, berry-coloured Russian salad bursting with beetroot and egg. We ate outstanding cuttlefish al nero, ominously black, the blackest food I’ve ever had, edible midnight, in fact.

If you do go to Lardo, order the arancini with N’duja and mozzarella, which are, depending on your heritage, a posh croquette, rissole or Cumbrian pattie, but don’t debate that, just eat them, preferably with a glass of one of Lardo’s excellent available reds, Sympathie Pour Les Stones. The speck, spinach and Belper Knolle pizza was lovely, but oddly the least memorable part of the meal. If the rich white chocolate trifle Zuppa Inglese is on offer, snap it up quickly.