I think Sheffield might be my new favourite city. It’s managed to become cool without ruining itself in the process, refusing to polish away the bits that make it interesting whilst building a city that feels lived in rather than curated. There is also an impressive amount of great food and drinks for a city that once made its money turning metal into things. Independent restaurants, good pubs, hidden wine bars, proper bakeries and the sort of places where someone has decided that a 200-year-old industrial building would make an excellent dining room. Sheffield doesn’t seem particularly interested in convincing the rest of the country that it is important. It is far too busy getting on with being Sheffield.
The only problem is getting anywhere. Everything is either up a hill, down a hill or at the top of a hill you were assured was just round the corner. Locals give directions in gradients rather than miles: go up there, past that pub, then down a bit, then up again. You arrive at dinner slightly out of breath and full of appetite. But perhaps that’s part of the charm. Sheffield makes you earn your meal, and after fifteen minutes of fighting Google maps and asking two very friendly locals, we finally found Forbici, our lunch stop for the day.
Forbici talk in numbers of PH levels, hours of fermentation, degrees, and slices, to appeal to those who take dough too seriously. I care about the massive pizza oven at the back, clad in tiles and Naples accredited, which is roaring at 400 degrees at noon on the dot. I care less about the negroni I order which is overdiluted. And then two pizzas as good as anywhere in the country. Maybe even as good as Napoli on the Road. Ethereally light and slightly lactic, with puffed and charred crusts and a centre that’s soft without being soupy. Just last week I had one of the worst pizza’s of my life albeit for friends of the venue to tell me that I know nothing and that the pizza is the best. I would send those goons here to see what the best pizza looks like, though they would never come because they would have to pay for the pleasure.
We share them both and can’t agree on what is best. Sophie prefers the Spagnola with the bitter padron peppers working to give shade to the chorizo and hot honey, whilst I’m all in on the one with real Italian ‘nduja (the heat and the organs) with stracciatella and basil. It is a very considered, perfectly executed pizza with toppings that are not only the very best in quality but also there for a reason. I can’t rave about it enough to the point that it doesn’t need the chilli mayo dip that it is a little gummy. We finish by sharing a pistachio tiramisu which is sweet and comforting but misses the mark a little.
The bill is £50 between two, which is a steal for how good the pizza is. This could be the best pizza in the UK – it is certainly somewhere in the top three for what I have had – and the feeling is that if the same level of detail was applied to the rest of the menu as the pizza this could be a really exceptional restaurant. There are some that will have you believe that neapolitan pizza is dying out and that a crispier style of pizza is where the future is at. In terms of ease of service, preparation, and cook that may be true, but when someone takes the Naples style and elevates it as they do here, there really is nothing better.
9/10
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