Fay Maschler reviews Julie's: Not so much nookie, naughtiness and fun, but food still hits the G-spot

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Fay Maschler10 October 2019

These days the fact that Captain Mark Phillips had his stag night — before his marriage to Princess Anne in 1973 — at Julie’s in Holland Park might not have us rushing to Bookatable. Of course there are other luminaries such as Raquel Welch, Sean Connery, Naomi Campbell, the Gallagher brothers — although probably not together — Sir Paul McCartney and Kate Moss who are often invoked when this west London hangout is mentioned. Its relaunch this autumn after a spell in the dark marks the restaurant’s 50th anniversary.

Co-founded by Tim and Cathy Herring in 1969, designed by Julie Hodgess, after whom it is named, and for several decades managed discreetly and seductively by Johnny Ekperigin, Julie’s stood for naughtiness, nookie and fun. I don’t remember much chat about the food. There were accounts of shenanigans behind the curtains of table G3, otherwise known as the G Spot.

Remaining in the ownership of the Herrings, with grandson Ralph working as chef de partie in the kitchen, the revamp of the interior has been overseen by Julie herself. At dinner, arriving a bit earlier than the booking in order to try the bar, we are greeted — “Have you got a booking?” — then hurried down dark stairs to a little alcove where, apart from waiting staff who diligently attend, we see no one else.

A few shrieks of laughter from other tables from time to time penetrate the little nook upholstered with Moroccan-style fabric. I have a feeling the G Spot is next door.

The new head chef — chef-patron the publicity says — is Shay Cooper, whose previous position was at The Dining Room in The Goring hotel. I really liked his food there and at The Bingham in Richmond. Both places were awarded a Michelin star, newsy at time of writing.

Buttermilk fried quail with white miso emulsion is Mother Clucker for aesthetes — delectable. Hereford beef tartare with spiced shallots, French beans, nasturtium and onion mayonnaise is also impeccably constructed.

Advanced comprehension of ideal dance partners informs main courses like salt marsh lamb with pressed cabbage, garlic potatoes, crisp lamb breast, preserved lemon and roasted Cornish cod, cuttlefish, bacon, chicken and mushroom dressing, but the standout assembly is lemon curd, lemon sorbet, coconut and fennel crumble, in its simple sensuality one of the best desserts I’ve encountered in a very long time.

Mother Clucker for aesthetes: Buttermilk fried quail at Julie's 
David Cotsworth

I return for lunch with a local who has fond and racy recollections of Julie’s. I reckon there might be a more casual, cheaper menu with dishes suited to the plentiful terrace seating for when the weather plays along. My chum writes to me later: “Hospitality. Surely it’s the NUMBER ONE thing, the secret sauce that turns ordinary restaurants into magical cults and the lack of it renders the ones even with fantastic food empty”. My welcome has been “Do you have a reservation with us?” A few dowagery ladies are out and about at other tables. With main courses hovering above and below £30, lunch is not apparently appealing to Millennials.

But my friend adores the food. “I have never eaten anything green with such unctuous joy to it as that charred kale risotto with Dorset crab and horseradish butter. Deep, deep green in look and taste, it has the funky joy of fat too. Yin and yang; exceptional.”

Ox cheek with its daube-like stickiness, smoked cauliflower puree and little deep-fried cauliflowerets “like chicken nuggets for vegans” also gets the thumbs-up.

Meanwhile I am loving Cotswold white chicken with creamed spelt, pickled mushrooms, sherry and tarragon. We share muscovado sponge, caramel mousse and natural yoghurt; the very word muscovado signalling tantalising burnt-sugar aromas and flavours.

The fairly brief wine list, with little rhyme or reason in its higgledy-piggledy format, is presumably a work in progress. Despite fabulous food I can only see disappointment if you return to Julie’s à la recherche du temps perdu. It might be better for the owners to grasp the nettle and re-name it Chez Shay. Mr Cooper deserves that.

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