Restaurant Review #5: Franco Manca
The first thing you notice about Franco Manca is how small all the staff are. The second thing you notice is that you’ve been standing in a queue for twenty-five minutes.
It is a well-established fact that the Italians and the Spanish operate a monopoly on the table-waiting industry in London, a tight-knit brotherhood, impenetrable by workers of any other nationality. Racial discrimination is one thing, but to exercise prejudice on the basis of height is frankly appalling. Anyone can change their nationality but height is completely out of one’s control. I am grateful I am not a jobseeking, tall, German man, otherwise I would probably have to return to Germany, and nobody deserves that.
When we took our seats we were greeted with a bottle of complimentary wine that turned out to be tap water, which is the opposite way round to how it happened in the bible. The menu was short and Italian, like the staff, and I ordered a margarita to be on the safe side. Some of the toppings were 1.50, a third of the price of the pizza, which is an insanely high percentage. If I was going to spend 1.50 on a topping, I think I would be more comfortable if the pizza was around £10.
The restaurant itself was a small space, benches and tables packed in tightly, every seat filled with men, women, and those who’s gender I will not assume. After observing the staff going about their business, the employment policy began to make sense. The intricate maze of tight gaps that characterised the interior would have been impossible for a regular-sized human being to negotiate. They squeezed, ducked, slid, danced, disappeared and reappeared; majestically agile, efficient, rapid. They were the optimal proportions. And that’s when it hit me. In the forehead. It was a scrunched up menu, so I threw it back at my friend.
The pizzas came quicker than a sixteen-year-old having sex for the first time sober. The dough was spectacular and after I inquired about it to a pint-sized member of staff, she told me it was a secret recipe that she could not divulge. Even though I was sitting down, I still had to bend down to hear her. Who was this Franco Manca? I asked. She said even the staff didn’t know the full truth, but speculation was rife between her and her co-workers. His whole existence was shrouded in mystery; there were rumours that he was too ill to tend to the business, managing from his deathbed. Another rumour suggested that he was very much alive, canvassing the continent for cheaper ingredients to maintain his promise of a Franco Manca pizza always being 50p cheaper than Pizza Express. Perhaps my favourite theory though, was that he didn’t even exist, and was the brain child of a man named Guiseppe Mascoli in 2008, bankrolled by a £27.5 million investment from infamous restauranteur, David Page. How people’s imagination’s run wild!
But hold on a minute. Everything about this success story suddenly seemed strangely familiar. A large, excited crowd lining up outside? A foreign-imported, tanned, compact-sized work-force? Secret recipes and an elusive, enigmatic founder? This was not Franco Manca, it was Willy Wonka- with his merry band of Mediterranean oompa-loompas.
And with pizzas for less than £5, and a regularly long line of willing customers, he has clearly found the golden ticket. Wherever you are Willy- Franco- Guiseppe- get well soon, or get home safe, and we’ll see you in the queue.
