Jimi Famurewa reviews Italo in Bonnington Square

I had been dimly aware of Italo deli and café in Vauxhall for years, distantly lusted after its food on Instagram for months and planned a trip for weeks.

But I’d say, at a generous estimate, it took me all of 30 seconds to fall in love with it to a hopeless, obsessional degree. It could not be helped. I hopped off my bike amid an enjoyably jumbled outdoor crowd of chic bohemian lifers, giddy new parents and couples picking at vast plates of charcuterie. And I couldn’t help but nod along to the incongruous Capital Xtra soundtrack provided by the cranked radio of some nearby scaffolders before giving in to the charms of a sunlit, magic-realist version of London in all its scrappy, contradictory glory. And then a cat darted by my feet, climbed a tree and accessed the flat above Italo via a specially constructed little wooden gangway because, well, of course it did.

None of this will be news to locals or those who know their London food lore. Co-founded a little more than a decade ago by Charlie Boxer (son of cookery writer Arabella, dad of new-wave culinary princes Jackson and Frank) in the 1980s squatter stronghold of Bonnington Square, Italo has a dishevelled uniqueness long-established in SW8. Its narrow, backroom kitchen has nurtured talents such as Pitt Cue’s Jamie Berger and Tom Adams. Emily Dobbs, creator of Sri Lankan food stall Weligama, is the head chef, with Sherri Dymond (of Brixton Village pop-up Blue Jay) also exerting an influence on things. Dymond seemed to be taking the lead during my visit, visible in the kitchen and discernible in food that possessed a kind of Rochelle Canteen-grade, European simplicity. But whoever is at the stoves, there seems to be an unwavering core philosophy of delivering hearty, affordable pleasure.

Shuffling into the cramped, pasta-piled shop interior my mate Joe and I ordered almost everything from the six changing daily dishes, a move unusual enough to elicit surprise tipping into light suspicion. Almost everything gently blew us away. Wet confit garlic and burratina on toast with monk’s beard was balanced and bright, draped in those wilted green fronds, dotted with squishy, honking cloves and liberally lubed with terrific, fragrant oil. Charred courgette — in whacking great slices atop chickpeas, glistening shreds of cavolo nero and a cooling blob of ricotta — was a subtler beast, helped along by a slow-blooming lick of dried chilli. Orecchiette in spiced rabbit ragu kept the Italian end up with lots of flaking, gently gamey meat, an inviting snowstorm of Parmesan and a sauce that, though thin, had a welcome, mustard-seeded sprightliness.

Harissa lamb neck — tender, punchily seasoned and tempered by a splat of yoghurt — arrived on chilli-tinged bulgar wheat like a welcome postcard from the other side of the Mediterranean. We duelled over proper grown-up scoops of La Grotta grappa and damson ice cream.

Yes, service was necessarily brusque during a frantic lunch rush. And, despite some tight indoor seating, you’d have to acknowledge that Italo’s appeal dwindles sharply in bad weather. But Charlie Boxer (a rangy, charismatic presence throughout our lunch, greeting regulars, barking out food orders or hand-winding the old-fashioned meat slicer) has created something that still possesses a twinkly, contagious magic. It marries industriousness with transfixing eccentricity; Continental languor with hustling, British grit.

Sending outsiders to an already very busy place may turn my name into a muttered, Vauxhall-specific swear word. But no matter. In an era of Instagram-filtered gloss, menus that need to be explained and effortful attempts to make the new-built feel lived-in, what Italo does, and what it represents, has never felt more vital.