Doppio Zero, N5
Near-perfect pizza
Neapolitan pizza isn’t cool any more. It’s the old thing, stuck in the past; bready, floppy, and soupy, when London has declared that it wants crispy, chewy, and charred.
The good news is, none of that matters one bloody bit. And that goes double at Doppio Zero, a tiny pizzeria just off Finsbury Park’s Blackstock Road that doesn’t seem especially worried about being cool — it still servers its starters on slates, for Christ’s sake — but is clearly obsessed with turning out perfect pizza.
Doppio Zero — which takes its name from the Italian flour — looks pretty unremarkable from outside, a small frontage with a couple of wooden tables and fold-up chairs. Inside there’s barely room for another four tables, squeezed inside tight walls bedecked with Neapolitan football merch, a compactness forced in part by the effort to fit a wood-fired oven into the minuscule kitchen. The trade-off was worthwhile.
Truth be told, I’ve been eating Doppio Zero’s pizza for months, though I’ve only set foot through its doors once. It’s been my first port of call for delivery ever since I tried it on a whim a year or so ago, beating out the likes of Santa Maria and Zia Lucia whenever I feel the need for a “proper” pizza. I knew eventually I’d have to make an in-person visit though, just to confirm my suspicion that this is one of the best pizzerias in the capital right now.
It’s all in the dough. Doppio Zero’s is soft, pillowy, and luxurious, rising high in thick, spotted bubbles at the crust. It’s not firm or crisp, but it’s just substantial enough to hold its shape — and its toppings — which have clearly been carefully portioned so as to avoid a single soggy bite. It’s flavourful too, a slow ferment building up just a hint of sourness and all the nutty notes of the flour. Whatever criticisms you might try and levy against the Neapolitan style, I don’t think any of them will stick here, and if you’re already a devotee then I can hardly see what complaints you might find.
The pizza menu is sprawling, and not entirely traditional. It’s broadly divided in two: the first section the more straightforward, your margheritas and primaveras, usually based around a tomato sauce; the second section is labeled “gourmet,” and is where the chef gets a little more creative. Most of these have white bases, using creams of porcini or courgette as their starting point, perhaps working in potatoes, or pistachios, or pesto drizzled on top. With just a little scepticism I try the self-titled Doppio Zero, a pumpkin base topped with mozzarella, parma ham, blue cheese, and walnuts. In lesser hands this might be sickly sweet, or overpoweringly funky; here its disparate ingredients sit in a delicate balance, each ceding space to the others in turn, none allowed to overawe the rest.
Beyond the pizza, the menu trots out a few pan-Italian classics alongside more explicit nods to Naples. You can snack on suppli, bruschetta, or balls of burrata, but I can’t resist the montanarine, deep-fried parcels of pizza dough stuffed with tomato or stracciatella. By the time dessert rolls around I’m similarly drawn to the bombetta, crisp twists of fried dough that run rich with Nutella, the sort of fare you imagine sticky-fingered Neapolitan children hoovering up greedily. There’s the requisite tiramisu of course, which is good, but nothing remarkable.
The only really bum note at Doppio Zero comes with the drinks. Beer is limited to two types of Peroni or the Sicilian lager Ichnusa, while the wine options are prosecco, red, or white. I have a glass of each colour, which prove to be perfectly functional fare. It’s great that a bottle is only pennies north of £25, but I’d love that cheap ‘n’ cheerful option to sit alongside a few others with a little more interest.
Its sheer size means that Doppio Zero won’t work for a big group dining out, and the limited drinks might scupper its value for celebrations. The McTominay Napoli shirt hanging on one wall might not necessarily fit your image of southern Italian chic, and the furniture lacks the minimalist midcentury draw of celebrity-owned Lupa, just a few minutes down the road.
But then the pizza arrives, and all the rest fades away. In a city still packed with Neapolitan pizzerias, a Franco Manca in every postcode, there are few in London doing this better right now, and perhaps none quite so deserving of more recognition than they currently get.