If a willingness to share your food is a sign of everlasting love, then there was always something missing. For five years, dinner times were dictated by a halving process. Exactly portioned plates as a promise of dual contentment. Eating; a collective, solo experience. But like with most rules, there was, of course, exception. Pizza, the ultimate proportioner. It’s easily sliced, doughy circumference universally accredited as ready to be split — and most importantly for us, precisely. It became our go to, our comfort food, a meal kept largely tension free.
A trip to our chosen Neapolitan pizzeria, Rudy’s, was well established as a pilgrimage. Regularly we’d indulge ourselves, scrolling through the restaurant’s Instagram from the comfort of our sofa, enlarging the accessorised bases for analysis, longing for their taste. We’d limit our visits, hold back until the point of desperation, when, at last, one of us had reached the point of absolute desire.
Picked primarily for its location, less than a five-minute walk from what used to be our flat, so easy to slump home to once our stomachs had been overfilled, Rudy’s resides hidden on a backstreet of Ancoats. Pretty unremarkable in appearance, its grey exteriors blend with its industrial neighbours, but the unmistakable smell of baking crust greets you on approach. We’d take a breath and slowly take it in.
This glorious scent was one of cruelty, though. Wafting proudly through the air, as the waitress, whose face we grew to know, instructed us to leave our phone number. “That’s going to be at least a forty-five-minute wait, I’m afraid”. A blow we learnt to expect. Never were we graced with the honour of an easy walk-in. Much to our irritation, they don’t take bookings. You’re expected to earn a seat; only once your appetite is bursting from your insides are you welcomed in. We’d watch on as those, already triumphant, wiped a drooling mix of buffalo mozzarella and tomato from their lips.
As we’d wait for the minutes to pass, all too slowly, talk often turned to the restaurant’s arrogance. So confident in its limited menu of traditionalism, it chooses to remain almost entirely undecorated, relying solely on its trusty clientele of carefully constructed hippy couples to pump lifeblood into its unfinished interiors. On our first visit, I saw a pair both fully donned in white, complete with matching berets, bathing in the minimalism of the exposed pipework. “It is lucky the pizza’s so good”, we’d say, though we probably enjoyed believing we were, too, part of the mass’s eccentricity.
But it really is so good. So good, it’s like art. As is the cult of Neapolitan pizza, each is uniquely constructed with a biomorphic edge. We’d watch as they were born and shovelled from the god like silver pizza oven that stands central. As they were flip, flopped onto hot plates and carried over to us like a gift. As they were finally placed in front of us, their mammoth form of lightly browned and cushiony perfection, at last, ready for us to spoil. To our shame, we’d sometimes pause to photograph the craft in its totality. I had a secret album on my phone, to Rudy’s, dedicated solely. A record of stillness. The moments before we’d embark on our long awaited gorge.
We’d rush to slather the bases in chilli oil, mistakenly greasing our hands as we go. Knives and forks flying wild, scratching china in a frenzy as we ripped the dough apart. We’d stop, as was our practice after the first bite to dissect. It was as it should be, as it always is — easily malleable but not too sloppy. We’d nod and hum in agreement as we’d go to bite again. The rustic edge finally fractured, its floury remnants left all over our hands and face.
You’d think, for a couple so prone to arguing about food, that the one we so sensationalised would be the thing to most destroy us. But at Rudy’s, I recall only moments of union. He’d happily slice away a chunk of his almost too spiced calabrese in exchange for a share of my portobello. Sometimes we’d even opt, dangerously, to go halves completely. Too overcome by temptation to choose between two classics, after much deliberation, one of us would ask the other, with caution — “Maybe we could just order both and share?” On one occasion, we even ventured further, choosing a fior di latte gelato to feast upon, together, as dessert. Its sophisticated creaminess dripping, perfectly from the tiny spoon we used, in turn, to scoop.
I’d like to say it was down to my willingness to compromise, that at Rudy’s, we were able to let go of all past resentment and ration carefree for the sake of a nice evening together, but there’s a laid back feeling to the restaurant that’s hard to ignore. Despite its aura of self-assurance, there’s a casualness throughout. It’s a place where staff are free to wear their stylish clothes as uniform. Where you’re able to comfortably ask to switch a red based classic to a white one without being looked down upon in shame. Where you’re welcomed onto seats beside the wood fired oven as if you were its equal — and if you’re lucky enough to get this coveted position on arrival, just know, you’ve hit the jackpot. There’s an easy satisfaction to dining at Rudy’s. A joy that goes far beyond its pizza’s taste.
I haven’t been able to return, though, since our breakup. The sensory memories of our togetherness, forever baked deep within the crust, too great. A friend told me that they’ve started doing delivery now — a luxury we would have capitalised on, I’m sure. I can’t help but wonder if we ever got the chance to consume it in this way if we’d be able to sustain our ability to share so openly. But there is something that tells me that we wouldn’t. Without the build-up, the atmosphere, or bland exteriors, it would be just like any other meal. Devoured by two, ultimately selfish, diners.
