Bella Italia, Exchange Street

30 June 2007

Banking, in itself, is seldom enjoyable. It’s even worse when you’re drifting in and out of consciousness due to critically low sugar levels. This I blame on the BBC. They had moved Doctor Who *again*.

I was well on the way to town when I discovered this (Mrs Wifey was in the vein for clothes shopping, so I’d packed the TV guide for light reading).

I’d left the house hungry, planning to pick up something trashy from the Bakers Oven to tide me over till we could munch on something more balanced (half a glacé cherry, I’m told, is not a vegetable portion).

The Belgian bun plan was thus nixed, and I trudged home, reset the video and started the expedition anew. The physical distress of the ordeal, however, was starting to tell and the hunger storms were wracking my frail body. Twenty minutes later, the perspex barrier in the Halifax was the only thing preventing me chewing off the clerk’s juicy face.

The next few minutes are hazy, but when I came to, we had evidently made it to the closest place that didn’t hazard our path with staircase.

Richard showed us to our table with a buongiorno, a couple of pregos and a lilting Irish brogue. Extra marks were scored for bringing the mineral water without pointless lemon garnish, but subsequently lost by forgetting the olives.

True to the style of themed bistro chains, Bella Italia is decorated (by the numbers) according to its ostensible country of origin. Unrealistic it may be, but it’s much less gratingly executed than at Café Rouge, although at least the latter’s abuse of foreign tongues extends no further than a cursory bon appétit.

I reminded Riccardo about the olives – he responded in apologetic English and gave them to us on the house.

To protect my body from excessive suffering, my brain had been shutting down its sensors; with one bite of this manna they exploded back into life. I can’t objectively testify to the quality of Bella Italia’s olives, but at this point they were definitely at least the third best thing I’d ever eaten.

Regrettably, the campagna and quattro stagioni pizzas weren’t in the same league. They weren’t *bad* as such, but with Pizza Express or Zizzi offering twice as much taste for the same money, at least a third of Bella Italia’s menu is redundant.

Eat here: maybe pasta
Keywords: the Italian job lot