Quite a few years back now, I went to Madrid for a story about a crew of feminist skateboarders. Yes, I know. Apart from being a pretty devastating piece of supporting evidence to the claim that late-2010s lifestyle journalism was especially ridiculous, it is a trip that I mostly remember because of what I ate and drank. Nectarean little cañas of icy Cruzcampo. Sharply rutted warm churros. And, most indelibly, a plate of flash-fried eggs showered in a golden mound of crisps. I think I had always thought I quite liked both these foodstuffs until I watched three diminutive Spanish girls go at them with a fervour that was as impressive as it was gently frightening.
Anyway, I thought of that dish again, recently, early on during lunch at Lolo: an all-day Mediterranean restaurant that is the latest twinkling node in José Pizarro’s ever-growing Iberian empire. It is a thin, fluffy sunburst of an omelette, layered up with glossy sheafs of Iberian ham, caramelised onions thickened into a sweet chutney, and a crowning pile of lacy, Torres-style Spanish potato chips. If you are thinking that this sounds like a combination that is almost transgressive in its wanton deliciousness, then you would be right. If you are also thinking that it feels a little chaotic and inebriated then you would, again, be right in quite a revealing way. Lolo is a soft-lit daydream of playful, punchy drinking snacks and burstingly fresh, high-glamour sharing dishes.
Nonetheless, it also feels like a place where meals can be prone to a kind of discordant formlessness. Premium larder items stuttered out of the kitchen. Servers having a well-earned mid-afternoon break struggled to fulfil the always-open brief. And, all along, I had the sense of a big operational swing that could gain some coherence and effectiveness through trying to do a little bit less.
The aesthetic mood could be described as rosé-tinted. Lolo — inspired by the pet form of Manuel, Pizarro’s middle name — sits next door to José, the Spanish restaurateur’s Bermondsey Street tapas bar, in a low-slung womb of dusky pink walls, abundant wood, backlit, decorative conserva tins and glossy coral tiles framing an open kitchen. At around 2pm, Spanish guitar twanged from the speakers, and the crowd was a cacophonous, Thirsty Thursday blur of deep chateau tans, chic blow-ins from the Biba exhibition over the road, and a heroically lively foursome tucking into a second bottle of pink wine. My special guest — an art curator called Elinor who had won a review ride-along in an Action Against Hunger charity auction — was extremely into it and, well, she was right to be.
It was the tapas-adjacent snacks and sides that tractor-beamed us in. Devilled eggs had elegant, creamy middles and an animating, bacony hit of smoked eel; Catalina anchovy gildas (despite being £12 for two) were especially plump and rambunctious; the omelette and crisps was the omelette and crisps, and even a cold, beige clump of arrocina bean salad was lent a little life by the deep smokiness of some mushed aubergine. “It feels like we’ve had a kind of Niçoise salad in instalments,” noted Elinor.
This is the thing. Lolo’s sizeable, varied menu — there is everything from kouign-amann pastry to a 50 quid Rubia Gallega ribeye steak — can feel like a choose-your-own-adventure book with too many potentially unsatisfying pathways. Yes, there is the pulse-quickening thrill of a painterly red prawn crudo, accented by a Moorish swirl of harissa-ish chilli oil and luscious orange chunks. But there is also courgette carpaccio, chilly of temperature and spirit, and a tin of perfectly pleasant Galician mini sardines (I had to Google this after a sweet, unbriefed server proudly told me they originated from “Spain”) that were served with not quite enough bread.
We finished with the oddly nostalgic, unequivocal high of natillas — a chilled, luxuriantly rich Andalusian custard, embellished by a zinging tickle of lemon and a buttery shortbread biscuit — and the realisation that some languorous drinks, augmented by those great snacks, may be the best approach here. You must fashion your own crescendo, basically. At the naughty table next door, they found it in a round of espresso martinis and talk of pushing on to the evening and some distant, 4am endpoint in an east London kitchen.
I will still be out there, savouring every last scrap of what this mad, brilliant city still has to offer
And, speaking of endings, it’s at this point that I should probably note that this will be the last of these columns from me. I am flapping my arm to get the bill. Or, perhaps, carking it mid-flow like Tommy Cooper or Fatman Scoop. There had been a temptation to put a thumb on the scale of my own conclusion, to bow out with a timeless sure-thing like Ciao Bella or The Regency Cafe, but, in its own way, Lolo seems as perfect a full stop as any. Just like the ever-refreshing restaurant scene that has created it, José Pizarro’s latest is imperfect, ambitious, wildly alluring.
It’s a shame we won’t get to explore the highs, lows and smashburger grifters of this crazed landscape together anymore. But thank you for reading, and please know that I will still be out there. Laughing and raging, delighting at the unexpected presence of crisps, and savouring every last scrap of what this mad, brilliant city still has to offer.
