I’ve been living in London for almost two months now; I’m settling in to a new pace of life, dealing with this tropical heat and deciding how I feel about selling my underwear online. I don’t usually deal with change very well, but I had not been in the city for a mere moment before people were recommending that I go to Franco Manca because I’d love it and Thomas omg you’ll love it too, Thomas honestly you will just LOVE IT.
Guy’s it’s just really good, seriously just go and check it out and let us know what you think.
We did go, and if I’m honest it was a bit shit. The base was burnt a little and the mushrooms on my pizza weren’t really cooked. I mean it was OK but it didn’t exactly change my world.
So, next time someone told us to go, I just told them that it’s not really for us and they acted like I had shot them in the face. This kept happening and on Thomas’ birthday we were going for dinner with his parents and they suggested this ‘little place’ they found called FRANCO MANCA. Thomas say’s that he isn’t really a fan and his dad said that isn’t a problem he knows somewhere else we can go. After a lovely walk down the canal and through a cute little market he tells us that we’ve arrived. We look up and see the drunken comic sans lettering, ‘FRANCO MANCA’. “I promise you, it really is lovely here.” It was at most ok.
On the way home, after saying goodbye to Thomas’ parents, I couldn’t stop wondering what everyone was seeing in this mildly ok pizzeria. Had everyone gone insane? Is the whole of London ordering an extra topping of cocaine on their pizza for between £0.50 – £1.75?
Then it hit me. Franco Manca is a motherfuckin’ cult. They don’t even try to hide it, all of the obvious signs for a cult are just out there in the open and I don’t even know how I’m the only one to see it.