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There’s an old adage in the restaurant industry: feed the rich, go home poor; feed them pizza, go home in a Lamborghini. Or something like that. And while I don’t know what the owners of Pizzeria Da Bruno are driving, I can attest that they’ve added value to the diners’ part of the equation by serving extremely good pizza in an unusually stylish space.

In this “Are we in a recession yet?” dining age, it’s good to have a place where you can dress up to go out for the demotic pleasures of good Naples-style pizza. At Da Bruno, they’ve nailed the minimalist, quality toppings and airy but blistered cornicione (crust), bases so crisp they conjure tingles worthy of an ASMR influencer yet remain so elastic you can easily fold a slice in two without any risk of crumbs.

Sitting among the new guard of hospo businesses slowly crawling east from Church Street – Future Future, Clover and Waygood all happily co-exist within a few hundred metres of each other – Pizzeria Da Bruno is busting out some persuasive, look-at-me moves. The cool and mannered space looks thrillingly expensive. Five levels of chic, concrete-driven brutalism include a basement bar where neon lighting and red velvet lounges wait for oysters and cocktails, and a rooftop bar with city views that’s waiting for summer.

I’m imagining a summer’s night on that rooftop, martini in hand and margherita in mouth.

Overlooked by a mezzanine, the main dining room’s double-height ceiling magnifies its made-in-Milan, supermodel looks. Curved lines soften the aggression of acres of polished, grey hardness, including plush, caramel-leather banquettes I’d like to steal for my own house.

In the open kitchen down the back, the wood-fired oven (imported from Italy, natch) looks like something designed by Philippe Starck.

The only drawback is the incredible noise. Sound bouncing off all those hard surfaces creates a sonic boom like an F-4 Phantom blasting overhead. They need to look into noise-cancelling baffling, pronto, before someone loses an eardrum.

But … pizza. A margherita is the litmus test of any pizzaiolo and this one, at $25, passes with flying colours. With the San Marzano sugo rocking its natural sweetness, and the mozzarella and basil completing the troika, the lasting effect is one of an edible, salty cloud.

Hawaiian? Yes, they go there, jazzing up this Aussie classic ($28) with sheets of quality speck (lightly smoked ham), pineapple that isn’t cloyingly sticky, jam-adjacent stuff and adding an adults-only touch of jalapeno chilli.

The loose-grained Italian sausage version ($29) with ’nduja (the spicy, spreadable, Calabrian salami) is double the carnivorous fun.

The broader menu is a document so full of faithful Italian staples that the average diner could fill in the blanks without even straying into the place. Two small arancini ($15) look miserly on first introduction but prove to be winningly juicy with their primavera fillings, all bright herbs and green veg such as spring peas and fennel. An aioli of no particular personality accompanies them, as well as a dish of fried squid tendrils ($29) with green Tabasco and a thicket of rocket leaves. King prawns ($24) are split, charred and betrothed happily to an ’nduja butter sauce that doesn’t overwhelm the sweet flesh.

The practicality of Da Bruno’s menu extends to the five pasta choices, which include a home-style ragu bolognese ($34) spiked with rosemary and served with the little tubular pasta known as sedani rigati.

The drinks tip their hat to the stylish surroundings. This is a place for a martini – or six of them, if you’re to work your way through the canonical list, from the Vesper to the dirty to the 50/50 Gibson (seven, if you count the espresso martini, which no one ever should). The wine list is short and practical and the negroni sound.

The desserts don’t exactly float my Italian Riviera boat. A wet and boozy tiramisu ($14) is covered in a blanket of chocolate dust that makes breathing in while eating a dangerous move, while the hazelnut gelato ($16), brought in from Spring Street Grocer, has ice chunks cursing its creaminess.

But like I said, pizza. I’m imagining a summer’s night on that rooftop, martini in hand and margherita in mouth. The all-white outfit goes without saying.

This review was originally published in Good Weekend magazine