Why we still love Pizza Express

How’s this for a bargain? A Pizza Express margherita for only 33p, if you dine in and order between 5 and 6 p.m. tomorrow, to celebrate 60 years of the chain. ‘In 1965 we brought proper pizza to the UK, and what better way to mark those 60 years than with 60 minutes of our original pizzas at their original prices,’ reads the promotion. I love Pizza Express. I don’t often go there, but I’ve never had a bad time in the place. I almost always choose the American, which has been on the menu since it opened, and the service and food is always consistent. I have no expectation beyond my pizza being fresh out of the oven, and everybody being served at the same time, however big the table.

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That’s not, by any means, to say the menu is perfect. The starters and sides are largely a disgrace, being mainly a variation on dough balls. But if your expectations are reasonable, you will have a great time. Order the olives with a negroni or a glass of Chianti to start, always the pizza (never the pasta – go to an actual Italian restaurant for that) to follow, and, for sides, they do a great crunchy slaw, and the green salad is serviceable.

I can’t imagine anyone coming out of Pizza Express complaining about the service, because staff are used to big groups, loads of kids, constant traffic and full restaurants. It usually works like clockwork, and it is very rare to see anyone ponder the menu for more than about three minutes – unless they are from Iceland, or vegan. Actually, even vegans are thoughtfully catered for, as are the ever-growing gluten-free community. They are also willing to pander to those of us who consider ingredients such as spinach a crime against humanity when placed on top of cheese and tomato, and have no qualms about removing the offending item.

Even if you have eaten margherita in L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele, credited with producing the best pizza in the world, Pizza Express still has its place. There are caveats: do not, under any circumstances, have the dessert, which will make you feel cheap and nasty. If you are with sweet-toothed monsters (i.e. small children), let them indulge in caramel-doused pre-made frozen nonsense and have the Frangelico affogato, which gets you an OK scoop of vanilla gelato and a shot of almond liqueur (alongside coffee, which, any time after 6 p.m., I would pass on to the non-insomniac in my party). My preference is to pay up and move along to a nearby decent ice-cream parlour, and spend the money you have saved on the modest bill.

When I heard about the Pizza Express promotion I did try to book, but no chance. I shall have to wait until the birthday celebrations are over and pay the extortionate price of £15.95 for my favourite – which, with that tasty slaw on the side, is easily enough for two.

Whenever you are within walking distance of a UK high street, there will be a Pizza Express. Why on earth have the likes of Franco Manca, the upstart rival, all but overtaken the pizza market? I loathe its sourdough base, which has an overbearing sour taste and a chewy texture which completely dominates. Franco Manca is as overhyped as Pizza Express is underestimated. Last year it was announced that the franchise was in the red, blaming staff working partly from home.

There are now hundreds of artisanal pizzerias across the country, offering all kinds of gimmicks including 72-hour double-fermented dough, cold-fermented sourdough starter, heritage grain bases, and one in London that has teamed-up with a Pakistani restaurant that results in a horrific dollop of fiery curry on top of melted cheese. I long for the days when all we had to worry about was pineapple chunks.

So it is, still, Pizza Express for me. I like the unobtrusive waiting style, and have never had any nonsense with blokes dressed like 18th-century carpenters crouching on the floor while they take the order. The joy of the chain is that it is without pretension and caters without complaint to a broad array of customers, from groups of Goths with more metal in their faces than you’d find on a scaffold, to American tourists sporting the ubiquitous primary-coloured shorts with ironed creases. There is no one tribe that flocks to these joints, and everyone is welcome. Happy birthday, Pizza Express, and congratulations for mostly avoiding the trends of the past half a century.