La Famiglia
Written by Hash Rifai
The restaurant business is famously cut-throat. The margins are thin, the inventory is perishable, competition is fierce, staff turnover is high, and in the dark days of a recession, dining out is usually the first expense to be culled. So any restaurant that’s been operating for more than fifty years must be doing something right — or is being propped up by laundered drug money.
La Famiglia, established in 1966, is not being propped up by laundered drug money — to my knowledge. You can never be too sure in a city like London. What I do know is that La Famiglia is one of the city’s finest Italian restaurants.
La Famiglia was introduced to me by my wife, the location chosen by her for our third date. I grew serious about her after that night. I’ve always been attracted to a woman with a good eye for restaurants. She told me that her father, an Italian, had been bringing her to La Famiglia ever since she could chew. This is the sign of a good restaurant — when it’s frequented by members of its own tribe.
The restaurant occupies a large footprint on Langton Street, a quiet residential road in Chelsea. The interior is styled like an old-school trattoria: blue-and-white tiles, walls covered with black-and-white photos, and tables laid with white linen. Stepping through the door, you’re greeted with a chorus of ciaos and buona seras from its staff, many of whom have been at the restaurant since its inception. Career waiters, as they are affectionately known — men and women who have dedicated their lives to the art of good hospitality, an art that La Famiglia perfects. They weave between tables dressed in spotless white blazers, accessorised with warm, sometimes cheeky, smiles.
Seated at your table, you’re presented with a bowl of olive tapenade — tangy, textured, and oily — and a basket loaded with breadsticks and focaccia. The focaccia is warm and moist, and leaves a thin residue of olive oil on your fingers, just as it’s meant to. Something to keep you satiated while you study the menu, a large document on which are printed all the classics: spaghetti vongole, carbonara, beef carpaccio, veal escalope, to pick a few at random.
Italian cuisine is famed for its simplicity, but simplicity is not easy to achieve. Two conditions must be met: high-quality produce and the fine balancing of ingredients — two conditions which La Famiglia satisfies in typical rilassato fashion.
My usual order is calamari and cacio e pepe. The calamari is fresh and fried just enough to be naughty. The cacio e pepe isn’t the best I’ve had — that title goes to Harry’s Bar on South Audley Street — but it’s a close second. Creamy, cheesy, and cut through sharply with copious amounts of fresh black pepper. When the plate is placed in front of me, I go quiet and allow my table-mate to do most of the talking. Dessert is — what else—but tiramisu. If you want ice cream, go to the supermarket; otherwise, behave yourself and order a big slab of rich mascarpone cream, lightly dusted with dark cocoa and resting on a foundation of coffee-soaked sponge.
A warning before you visit La Famiglia and curse me when the bill arrives: La Famiglia is not reasonable. The menu carries a 10–15% premium over other Italian restaurants in London. But other Italians are not La Famiglia. You pay for the experience — and the business rates of this extortionate city.