Da Maria in London is closing. Or rather, it will close at the end of the month: the owner and its managers have sadly announced it.
Okay, beyond the funereal tone, let’s take a step back. What is Da Maria? It’s a restaurant located in the heart of Notting Hill. Yes, that very district made famous by the film of the same name, although situated in a less characteristic area than the one with the classic English buildings with colorful little doors; instead, it’s on the more prosaic Notting Hill Gate, a main thoroughfare lined with modern buildings, just steps from the tube station with the same name.
But Da Maria has certainly seen its share of changes in that neighborhood. One thing I haven’t specified is that the restaurant has been there for 46 years, earning the title of one of the longest-running dining establishments in the English capital. Another thing I haven’t mentioned is that it’s a Neapolitan restaurant. Yes, you heard that right: not Italian, Neapolitan.
To think that in the 80s, when the pinnacle of foreign cuisine you could eat in London was Indian food adapted to local tastes, a family from Naples could offer strictly regional cuisine tells you a lot about the foresight of its owners. When I arrived in London in 2013, I caught that very wave of culinary regionalization that also led Neapolitan pizza to take over, with many pizzerias also offering a bit of typical cuisine. But those who had been there long before me said that until the early 2000s, regarding Italian gastronomy, the situation was quite dismal: imagine specializing in local cuisines!
This is why Da Maria represented for the Italian community in general, but for Neapolitans specifically, the equivalent of a medieval fortress within a modern city center: a historic place, imbued with the weight of the years. Mind you, the Italian community in London has existed since the late 1800s, with the Clerkenwell area remembered as a historic Little Italy, still represented today in food by the Terroni delicatessen (opened in 1878). But the real wave of Italians of the modern era began to arrive precisely in the 80s; European mobility favored subsequent migration, and the global crisis of 2008 accelerated the process, peaking between 2015-2019, so much so that London was repeatedly defined by the press during that period as the fourth or fifth Italian city (for the record: my period of stay was between 2013 and 2018).
Despite the stories of past southern migration from our country, during this period it was northern Italy that dominated among the resident Italian population: 41% of the total, compared to 20% from the center and 39% from the south and islands. Lombardy led the way, but right behind it was my region: Campania. And Naples was the third city representing Italians in London, after Rome and Milan, closely followed by Palermo; while the last three spots in the top 10 were respectively Avellino, Salerno, and Caserta.
So if you were a Neapolitan in London, it was no surprise if sooner or later you came across the name Da Maria: its fame reached you and seeped in almost by osmosis. It was that place you absolutely had to see at least once in your life to call yourself a true Neapolitan in London (note that I speak in the past tense even though at the time of writing the restaurant hasn’t officially closed yet). The stories of this “corner of Naples in Notting Hill” were legendary; and they were mostly, as one might expect, linked to soccer fans gathering on match days. In the small venue with just over twenty covers, people crammed in to watch Napoli games, and for those who couldn’t get in, the owner would set up a second big screen on the street: the entire fan club would crowd onto the sidewalk, ready to rejoice and suffer with their beloved team, alongside the owners of the place.
These stories were also passed down to me, and I never had the chance to witness them personally. since I never gave a damn about soccer; and I didn’t even have the anthropological curiosity to go and observe one of these gatherings. But in these circumstances, when you’re Neapolitan, the specific weight of the icon follows you even if you don’t want it to: a visit to a place like this becomes almost like a pilgrimage to Mecca, it’s unthinkable not to complete it at least once in your life. And indeed, that’s exactly what I did before concluding my London life cycle.
A few months before my definitive departure from London, I finally managed to organize a dinner with friends at Da Maria. Over the years I had undertaken the journey of this blog, I had already taken to heart many Neapolitan dining realities that represented a second home to me. Small restaurants that maintained the Neapolitan spirit, while adapting it to the modern needs of a city that made foreign gastronomy its strong point. The places I frequented might display photos of the Gulf of Naples or play a playlist of melodic songs: but all this was always framed within industrial, pop, vintage, or elegant furnishings, meeting all the stylistic tropes of London dining.
Da Maria, on the other hand, was exactly the type of Neapolitan joint you’d expect to find in a London projected back into the 80s: a hole in the wall whose walls were crowded with photos and portraits of Maradona, complete with a framed number 10 jersey; questionable murals depicting iconic Neapolitan characters from Totò to Pino Daniele to Sophia Loren; an uncountable number of photos of the owners with various famous people or just with friends; checkered tablecloths, little horn charms (cornicelli), and various Pulcinella figures. The space between tables was minimal, the kitchen practically right up against the dining room, and in short, the feeling was that you were entering the neighbors’ house for lunch.
The neighbors in question were the owner Pasquale Ruocco, who regularly wandered around the tables to make sure everyone was okay; and his wife Maria, one of the two women the place was dedicated to (the other was Pasquale’s sister, also named Maria). The attitude was exactly that typical of village trattorias where the hosts constantly spend time with customers to exchange a few words, learn something about them, tell anecdotes, all with the aim of making them feel as if they were having lunch at a friend’s house.
But in all this, how was the food? Not great, I must say. On the menu front, I was happy to find canonical dishes like gnocchi alla sorrentina, penne with cherry tomatoes, lasagna, and yes, even pizza: after all, simplicity was the soul of that place. But on the culinary level, it certainly wasn’t the place I would have recommended you return to if not, precisely, to live the pilgrimage experience as I wanted to live it.
If you look at the reviews on TripAdvisor, you immediately notice how most positive reviews mainly highlight the jovial atmosphere of Neapolitan-ness of the place; while negative ones highlight the poor quality of the food, and even significant issues like a non-functioning bathroom. Let’s say that if I had arrived in London ten years earlier and found this as the only restaurant representing my city, it would have bothered me quite a bit, because it would have highlighted its most stereotypical soul: genuine and welcoming, but also cunning and disorganized.
Instead, during my London years, I had the privilege of seeing a generation of Neapolitans at work who strove to elevate pizza culture beyond the disastrous standards imposed even by the Italians who arrived before them, combining it with English standards of hospitality and service. So in my eyes, Da Maria did not represent, as it certainly did for many other Neapolitans, a place of the heart, but more of a historical relic.
And it is with this historical weight that the place now leaves us. “Not for lack of funds or lack of customers, but for reasons that we need to rest,” as per the owner’s exact words in the farewell reel. And indeed, it can be said that in 46 years, Pasquale and Maria will have done and seen things: the years of Brit Pop and Cool Britannia, Thatcher, the London bombings, Brexit, Elizabeth’s death, and all four of Napoli’s scudetti… They traveled through all this, representing a piece of Parthenope in one of the world’s greatest cities. Perhaps they won’t be remembered for their cuisine, but the legacy they leave behind is truly imposing. And in a city like London, which in recent years has lost more and more Italians due to the changed political climate, it’s another piece of our country’s history that is leaving.
This is an AI-assisted translation of the original Italian article, which I have lightly edited. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes!
