October 28, 2025 |
There are restaurants that announce themselves – all glossy interiors, queue-worthy gimmicks and menu descriptions that leave you feeling confused. And then there’s Trullo, the brainchild of chef Tim Siadatan and his business partner, Jordan Frieda, which doesn’t so much announce itself as quietly bloom into existence. Nestled on a genteel stretch of St Paul’s Road, just a stone’s throw from Highbury Corner, it’s the kind of place you’d almost walk past if you didn’t already know – and the kind of place you’d never forgive yourself for missing if you did.
Outside, a blissful blue façade greets you. Inside, Trullo is all warmth and understatement, a masterclass in how to be effortlessly inviting. The dining room is dimly lit by a golden light. Tables are bare save for thick linen napkins and glasses that catch the candlelight just so. The walls are the colour of egg shells, hung with blackboards chalked up with the day’s menu and pictures that feel like something you’d find in a nonna’s kitchen. The open kitchen hums softly in the background, the occasional hiss and clatter punctuating the low murmur of North London conversation. There’s something reassuring about its rhythm – the sense that this is a place that’s been running at its own pace for years (Trullo opened in the summer of 2010), unbothered by trends, unhurried by time.
The staff float through the room with that rare combination of efficiency and calm, the kind that makes you feel looked after without ever feeling managed. They know when to appear, when to refill your glass, when to let the conversation flow. The clientele – a mix of long-term locals, date-night couples and the occasional off-duty foodie – seem to share an unspoken agreement: no one is here to rush.
My guest and I begin with the sourdough and Le Ferre estate olive oil, the kind of bread-and-oil pairing that reminds you why simplicity endures. The olive oil is grassy and bright, the bread still warm, with just enough chew to soak it all in. Alongside, a bowl of Nocellara olives – plump and green – and a bruschetta of Vesuvius tomato with chilli and fennel dressing from the vegan menu. It’s vibrant and fresh, the heat from the chilli just enough to wake everything up. We pair these with Aperol spritz’s making for a simple start, but like everything at Trullo, simplicity hides a lot of skill.
Then comes the pasta. Trullo has become almost mythic for it, and rightly so. My guest’s pici with guindilla chilli, garlic and pangrattato from the vegan menu is a tangle of heat and texture – the breadcrumbs giving crunch, the garlic lending depth. My own pici with Romana courgettes, parmesan and basil is softer, greener, more comforting; the kind of dish that feels both homely and deliberate – like comfort food but with an elevated edge. There’s something deeply satisfying about how both plates arrive – no garnish for the sake of it, no flourish, just the quiet confidence of food that’s been made with care minutes before service.
For mains, my butterflied Mevagissey mackerel with panzanella is smoky from the charcoal grill, the fish crisped at the edges and soft in the centre. Across the table, my guest’s artichokes alla giudia with coco beans, wilted spinach and purple olive dressing feels like its perfect counterpart – earthy, rich and bright all at once. A side of Cornish mids to share rounds things out, the potatoes golden, salted and sprinkled with just the right mix of rosemary and thyme. We both drank a perfectly dry red wine.
Dessert is tiramisu, of course – light, creamy and properly made. It doesn’t try to reinvent anything, it just delivers that perfect balance of coffee, mascarpone and cocoa that makes you close your eyes for a moment longer than you meant to, savouring.
Like with the tiramisu, Trullo isn’t trying to reinvent Italian cooking – instead, it’s celebrating it. But what sets it apart is that sense of balance: rustic without being heavy, elegant without being pretentious. Each dish feels as if it could have come from someone’s kitchen in Puglia – but someone who happens to have impeccable taste in wine and lighting.
What Trullo offers, in the end, is a kind of quiet confidence. There’s no theatre, no posturing, no desperate attempt to be “the next big thing.” As we leave, the staff are already resetting tables, the last few diners lingering over coffee. The windows glow against the cool North London night and the street outside feels, for a moment, like somewhere in Italy. You step out stuffed – but more than that, content. And in a city where contentment is often the hardest thing to come by, that’s something to hold onto.
Photography courtesy of Trullo.
