Poli
… IT’S AMORE, BAB
Click here for a more recent review of Poli (June 2021)
Wednesday evening, we get a text from our friend Sarah announcing she’s escaped the great Metropolis and she’s back in Smallville for a few days, visiting her Mum and Dad. “Would you like to hook up tomorrow for a bite to eat?”
Whilst it’s always great catching up, not much else cranks up the stress levels quite as much as friends visiting from London. Not all friends from London; just the ones who left Birmingham anytime before 2010. Birmingham is the place they escaped from: a grey, dystopian post-industrial sprawl, devoid of culture, sophistication and style. But worse still, it’s the place without good neighbourhood places to eat.
They make out they miss a balti, although you’ve long been able to get one in any town from Aviemore to St. Ives. They just pity us and if their parents didn’t still live here, they’d never come back; nor would they ever even admit to coming from here, but for the cachet afforded by Peaky Blinders.
Since they left, the city is now blessed with a constellation of Michelin stars and other fine dining venues. There’s also a vibrant weekend street food scene, although it’s fair to say not too much of note in between. Most surprisingly perhaps, there’s actually been little in the way of these food entrepreneurs opening up restaurants; albeit with notable exceptions in Digbeth and Stirchley. But both areas are a cab ride away and generally popular weekend destinations, so risky at best in the week.
Luckily, Poli has recently opened—just a ten-minute walk from home—serving wood fired Neapolitan style sourdough pizzas, small plates, craft beers and natural wines. It couldn’t be more neighbourhood dining if Kylie and Jason were running it.
There’s an unlikely buzz at 7.30 on a Thursday evening just off Kings Heath High Street, with its two Poundland stores; long burnt down, derelict and boarded up 1920s cinema; and twenty odd takeaways. Tables and benches outside are brimming with a mostly 20- and 30-something crowd, all intent on making the most of the current heatwave. They’re devouring some impressive looking pizzas; all pillowy, spotty dog crusts. And with the front of the restaurant completely opened out, and a similar scene inside, it’s all very promising.
Poli is bright and airy with flamingo pink walls and whilst the main room is long and narrow, on a wander to the loo, I see there are more intimate dining spaces at the back. But with the pizza gods still looking favourably on me, we’re given the one free table in the front section overlooking the street. There’s a great soundtrack pumped at the sort of volume that cranks up the level of conversation, but you can still catch individual tracks from an eclectic mix spanning electronica, indie and early 90s hip hop.
With drink in hand, I’m fully relaxed for the first time since Sarah texted yesterday. Conversation is in full flow, catching up on the last three months, so when the waitress arrives to take our order we have to send her away. She returns five minutes later and whilst we’ve menus in hand, none of us have had more than a cursory glance. She stays put, lightly tapping her pen on the pad, properly putting us under pressure.
Menus freshly printed on A4 paper are testament to daily changing options. Never mind the pizzas, I can’t even see past the small plates: burrata with heritage tomato, toasted crumb, strawberry dressing and basil sings to me like a Puccini opera; but it’s the thought of roast potatoes in lamb fat with mint that provokes a true Pavlovian response.
After what must’ve been a fairly agonising wait for the waitress, whilst I tried (OK, OK… begged) and failed to persuade the table to share some small plates, we eventually make our pizza selections. Katrina opts for the Vodka—San Marzano tomatoes, house sausage, buffalo mozzarella, red onion; Sarah and I both go for the N’duja—San Marzano tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, ricotta, cavolo nero; and Georgie rather reluctantly opts for the Marinara. And with an almost comical sigh of relief, the waitress escapes with our order.
“What’s the problem George?” I ask. “They’re not great vegetarian options,” she replies. “Oh, why didn’t you have the N’duja?” asks Sarah. “It’s meat!” we all chorus in reply. “Really?! Oh, I need to change my order then.” So we call the waitress back.
After yet another five minutes, during which I can’t bring myself to look in the direction of the waitress, Sarah asks if she can have “the n’duja pizza without the n’duja?” How marvellously London! We also order a bottle of Cantina Filippi Soave Castelcerino and an extra glass of prosecco.
Everyone is happy with their pizza, particularly Georgie who goes so far as to declare it “the best Marinara ever.” My sourdough base is perfectly airy and chewy under its lightly crisp crust. Being a bit pernickety, it could do with a little more cavolo nero with its deep, tangy bitterness working well with the sweetness of the tomato. But it’s working harmoniously with the creaminess of the ricotta tempering the intense heat of the n’duja, which eventually wins the battle on the palate.
Vodka & Sausage
Toppings are very much in the centre, leaving swathes of naked crusts, ideal for the crust dips we’ve also ordered—two squid ink aiolis and a fermented hot sauce—for a delicious dunking finale. I finish first, hovering to see if there are any crusts left by the others but, rather disappointingly, everyone has the same goal.
We’re love struck, not wanting the moment to end; we all find room for dessert and they come in the shape of ice cream sandwiches. Without any collaboration we each pick a different one, which means we end up with Strawberry—shortbread, marshmallow, jam, chocolate; Tres Leche—salted caramel, sponge; Malted Milk—oat biscuit malt crumbs, chocolate; and Miso—salt caramel and soy dulce de leche.
They’re a perfect combination of gooey, cakey, crispy, ice creamy and squidgy; triggering taste sensations and thrills usually associated with the fun fair. I suggest we try some of each other’s; it’s a motion that’s passed unanimously. I genuinely cannot pick a favourite.
The bill comes in at £125. It’s worth every penny. We’re in my neighbourhood and Poli has delivered beyond my wildest dreams, so this one’s on me.
As we say our goodbyes, Sarah is effusive with praise, suggesting it’s like the sort of place you now get in Dalston. I suspect she’ll be practising her Brummie accent on the way back to the smoke.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
21 York Road, Kings Heath, Birmingham B14 7SA
Photos © Poli - used with kind permission
