I've been here several times because I love Berbere pizza to death, but yesterday I was particularly satisfied, I went for dinner with a friend of mine and all the staff was extremely kind especially the boy who served us, they tried to accommodate our requests in every way, pleasant evening, I will return as always!
hilary carranza
.
01 Dicembre 2025
10,0
It's been a while since I've set foot in Berberé again. Partly because of a restless desire for novelty, as every month in Mediolanum a new "master" of yeast emerges, or rather, a usurper of the title, and partly because the local seasonal offerings had failed, for some time, to whet my spiritual appetite.
And yet, the return was a joy. Joyful even before crossing the threshold, as Berberé remains, in my opinion, the noblest of Italian chains, and, as far as pizza goes, one of the few worthy of reverence. This time, too, I wasn't disappointed.
I tried a new creation, with prosciutto crudo and stracciatella: the former, just the right amount of salty, cut with a sure hand into thick, bold slices, of Umbrian origin, seemed vigorous but not aggressive; the latter, cleverly placed under the prosciutto, so as not to slip away at the first tilt of the plate, brought freshness and grace to every bite.
The touch of orange oil was a master stroke: light, insinuating, present like a scent, never like a scream.
The dough, the classic, remains a certainty of faith: crunchy, fragrant, just the right amount of savory, firm in the bite and light in spirit.
It's a shame, however, that the much-vaunted multigrain dough seems like a miraculous relic: ten times I set foot in it, only once did I find it. The excuses, different each time, repeat themselves like the litanies of a tired cult. If it's truly so rare, why display it on the menu as a promise of redemption?
The beers, honest but uninspired: good company, but none that inspires song or memory.
Then, driven by reckless curiosity, I treated myself to the tiramisu. Alas, there fell the poet's lyre! All right in form, but nothing in soul. The coffee a distant echo, the cream devoid of virtue, the dessert itself a loveless exercise.
"Wasted carbohydrates," a modern sage would say; and I agree, for in truth, dessert should not surprise, but console. This one, instead, left a bitter taste of regret in my mouth and a suspicion of betrayal in my heart.
So, between a dough promised but never granted, a beer that doesn't dare, and a dessert unworthy of the bakery's coat of arms, my star wanes. Not to the setting sun, but by a degree.
Come then for the pizza, for it's worth the pilgrimage.
Sip a beer without too much philosophy.
And when the host tries to tempt you with dessert, smile and decline, for those who come in for the pizza leave happy; those who linger for the dessert leave regretful!
Alessandro Castrucci
.
13 Novembre 2025
8,0
Google
TripAdvisor