On an unassuming industrial estate in Prestwich, between a sea of grey warehouses, sits one of the best Italian restaurants in the UK – according to The Good Food Guide, no less. Welcome to Lupo, where Nico Pasquali is busy rewriting what ‘authentic Italian’ means, one proper Roman carbonara at a time.
The first time you visit Lupo, it might feel like you’re heading to pick up a box of screws, not a plate of pasta. Nico himself will probably be outside, arms full of cakes, ready to greet you with a sharp joke and a glass of something strong. The restaurant began during the pandemic as a veg box delivery spot but has evolved into a bustling trattoria, proudly refusing to bend to British versions of Italian food. No flat whites here – just strong, single-shot espresso and the kind of pastries you normally have to jump on a plane for.
Inside, the place has the feel of a Roman backstreet bar, with warm wooden counters, shelves of wine, and a kitchen that’s bigger than the dining room. That’s intentional. Nico’s focus is on doing everything properly – from scratch – with the tiny team handling pasta, pizza, pastries, and even their own wine imports. As Nico says, if you want to find Lupo, you’ll have to look for it. And that’s the point.
When it comes to the food, there’s no messing about. Their carbonara is a textbook lesson: rich, creamy (but crucially without a drop of cream), made the traditional way with guanciale and pecorino romano. There are no ‘modern twists’ here. Nico pulls no punches about his feelings on that.
And then there’s the pasticceria. Every morning, their pastry chef Giuseppe rolls out fresh sheets of puff pastry for the mille feuille, pipes glossy mounds of chantilly cream, and bakes trays of almond biscuits that seem to disappear as fast as they’re put out. There’s even a crunchy, feather-light frappe – a fried dough treat usually found in Italy’s best bakeries.
Even with ten staff working the kitchen, it all somehow feels low-key, personal. Nico doesn’t want a high street shopfront or a glitzy city centre address. He wants you to find Lupo, to make the effort. “Everyone can do well when there’s loads of customers,” he says. “But if people are willing to come find you, then you’re doing it right.”
Sitting there with a glass of Barolo and a plate of carbonara, it’s hard to disagree. It’s better to die in a Roman osteria, as Nico’s sign says, than in a pharmacy. At Lupo, you’ll eat like you’re alive.
