Smashed #27

The UK restaurant scene digested

The Restaurant Review That Went Wrong

Andy Lynes, Smashed
Julie’s, London

After six months of putting other food writers’ and critics’ work under the spotlight, I thought it was high time I put my money where my great big mouth is and write a proper restaurant review myself. I’ve written about where I’ve been eating in past editons of this newsletter, but never as a formal review as it might appear in a newspaper. I’ve done it in the past for the Metro and, in the dark distant days when Matthew Fort was the food editor, for The Guardian, so I can do it for Smashed.

I decided that the restaurant had to be somewhere newly opened so that it hadn’t already been reviewed to death; that meant no to places like Oma, Morchella and The Arlington. I also wanted to go to a restaurant where no one knew who I was so that I could review anonymously and be as brutally honest as I liked, which is pretty much the whole point of this newsletter. Julie’s seemed like the perfect option.

A truly historic London restaurant, originally opened in 1969 and a celebrity magnet for many years attracting Mick Jagger, Tina Turner, Princess Di, Kate Moss and Yoko Ono among others. I had never been, although I was tempted to go when chef Shay Cooper headed up the kitchens between 2019 and 2021. I had a great meal at The Goring when Cooper was head chef there but obviously it wasn’t enough to persuade me to haul my oversized arse to Holland Park (Cooper is now head chef of The Lanesborough Grill and I haven’t been there yet either. One day).

What did persaude me was my food writing chum Neil Davey banging on about ‘the lovely and brilliant’ chef Owen Kenworthy in an Instagram post about Julie’s re-launch party back in April (the restaurant is under new ownership and has been completely refurbished). The name was familar from Davey’s ravings about The Pelican, a short walk from Julie’s in Notting Hill and where Kenworthy last shook the pans. Davey knows his stuff so I booked a table for one last Wednesday, pretty confident I was in for a decent lunch (I did invite Davey to come along but he had a prior engagement. At least that’s what he told me).

It was a glorious sunny day. I was a little early for my table so I wandered slowly along Portland Road, marvelling at the handsome Victorian terraced houses and wondering who you’d need to fuck or kill to be able to afford to live in one of them (no. 64 went for a little over £8mill a couple of years ago). The closer I got to Julie’s, the louder Tom Yorke was singing ‘What the hell am I doing here?/I don't belong here’ in my head. I wasn’t afraid though. I’ve been eating in restaurants that are way out of league for decades (the original La Tante Claire was probably my first three-Michelin starred place) and am quite used to being the poorest person in the room. I was more than ready for them to take one look at my cheap shoes and give me their worst table.

When instead they showed me to a lovely spacious corner table, my spidey sense started to tingle. I tried to settle into the custom made Le Manache upholstered banquette and take in the glamorous surroundings; the beautiful Iskel floral wallpaper, the walnut table top, the sculptural chandelier and the stunning mirrored back bar (design details courtesy of this feature in Wallpaper magazine). But all I could think was that they’d rumbled me already. My suspicion was soon confirmed when Assitant General Manager Patra Panas, formerly of Le Trompette and The Glasshouse (now Hawthorne, which Panas co-owned for a short period) came over to say hello. I had no idea she had moved to Julie’s and had booked in my own name, pretty confident no one would recognise it. So much for an anonymous review.

I ordered a glass of Lost In Town Lager and considered my options. I could claim an unexpected family emergency and bail on what was likely to be a three figure bill and try and find an alternative spot for lunch that could be properly Smashed. Or I could just leave a tenner on the table and run for it. But I didn’t have a tenner and the last time I’d ran anywhere was, Christ, when was the last time I’d run anywhere? There was nothing for it but to order the spider crab “toast” with lemon and fennel (£6), the duck liver schnitzel with shallot marmalade and quails' egg (£19) and then a main of onglet bordelaise (£22) with sides of pomme puree (£7) and charred hispi with romesco sauce (£7) and choke it down as best I could.

Kenworthy delivered the spider crab snack and introduced himself. I’ve interviewed 100s of chefs over the years but for some odd reason our paths have never previously crossed. Whenever I’m in this situation and the chef is being nice to me I always think they must have mistaken me for Andy Hayler. We are a similar age with a similar amount of hair and share a name but he is much better known and more respected than I am, although of course I am much better looking. Until recently, he’d eaten at every three Michelin star restaurant in the world which is the sort of thing that impresses chefs. I have thought about what it must be like to eat in every three Michelin star restaurant in the world and then felt very glad I haven’t. I was also once mistaken for chef Stephen Harris of The Sportsman in Seasalter, an event which was far from insulting but didn’t help my sense of self very much.

Whoever he thought I was, Kenworthy told me that a couple of mermaids in Fowey had sent him the crabs (I think that’s what he said) and he’d fashioned them into a croustade type affair, except made from fried bread rather than the usual batter. In their Test Drive feature, Hot Dinners said the dish was ‘really more of a canape than a snack’ which I would say is a little unfair. Picking crab meat is one of the worst jobs you can have in the kitchen (I know, I’ve done it) and with their spindly legs, spider crabs make a tricky and labourious job even harder. For that reason alone, freshly cooked and picked crab meat is a real luxury. Bound with mayonnaise, it’s also quite rich so the relatively small portion seemed appropriate on both counts. I could have it wrong and meat comes into the kitchen ready picked, but from the flavour and texture, I would seriously doubt it. Either way it was delicious and a cracking start to lunch.

Kenworthy then reappeared serveral times with some stuff I hadn’t ordered. First came some very good bread made with British wheat (which I didn’t think was strong enough for bread making so that was a surprise) served with whipped spring onion butter. Every customer is given this gratis at Julie’s. Do you remember when all bread in restaurants was free? It took me right back to the aforementioned La Tante Claire where Pierre Koffmann used to bake about a hundred different varieties every morning. I could have wept.

I was also treated to an nduja scotch egg with tarragon, a creation that dates back to Kenworthy’s time at Brawn in the early 2010s and remains a very good idea. I enjoyed it so much that I forgot to take a picture of it but you can click on the Test Drive link above and look at one there. If that wasn’t enough I was also served the pork rillettes with cornichon and sourdough from the brunch menu. Kenworthy told me that after 29 years in the professional kitchen (he’s 45 apparently. That was a shock. He looks like he’s only been alive about 29 years. And aren’t policeman looking younger every day?) his purpose as a chef had changed. I’m paraphrasing but, rather than wasting time trying to copy what every other chef is doing, Kenworthy’s focus is now on promoting and supporting British agriculture. Hence pork from Tamworth pigs reared at Paddock Farm in Oxfordshire. Rillettes can be dry and uninteresting, at Julie’s they were richly flavoured and beautifully seasoned.

At some point, owner Tara MacBain came to the table to introduce herself but didn’t bring me any free stuff which was disappointing, and then my main course arrived. ‘But…I didn’t get the schnitzel,’ I whimpered, my lower lip trembling. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough starters already you greedy get,’ is what Panas should have said to me but she actually apologised profusely and sent all the lovely looking food back to the kitchen. It did cross my mind to not say anthing and just plough on with steak, I was after all going on for dinner later that same evening, but I’m glad I didn’t take the path of least resistance. Making a foie gras schnitzel is I suppose quite an obvious idea but that doesn’t prevent it from being a great one, as long as you don’t object to foie gras that is. The shallot marmelade had just the right level of sweetness and the yolk added just enough sauciness to the dish. For £19 however, it was a small starter.

By contrast, my onglet main course, when it re-appeared (although I’m pretty sure they re-fired the entire order) cost just three quid more than that and was decent chunk of nicely sliced and presented meat. The sides of creamy mash and charred hispi cabbage with a coarse, punchy romesco bumped up the bill, but they would have easily fed two or more.

As long as you are not billy no-mates like me, you can eat at Julie’s for a very reasonable amount. Reactions to the menu when I posted it on X included ‘Some of those mains look insanely cheap’ (@eaterwriter) and ‘That’s crazy good! Even £28 for sole meunière is phenomenal’ (@svenhansonbritt).

General Manager and all round star of hospitality Emma Underwood then came over, shook my hand and had a brief chat. I first met Emma about a decade ago when I visited Sticky Walnut in Chester to interview Gary Usher for a book project and to eat at the restaurant. They've both come a long way since then.

I was too full for dessert, especially with a similarly full-on dinner in prospect (I can't tell you where that was, it's a secret) so I finished with a double espresso (a little sour) and a very good chocolate truffle. I wondered who else might say hello - the restaurant designer, the landlord? I paid and left before my integrity could be further compromised, waving to MacBain who was chatting to some guests on the busy pavement terrace (inside had been packed too on a Wednesday lunchtime. Pana told me they are doing 100 covers a night as well).

A great lunch then but absolutely useless for Smashed. There was just no way of writing a meaningful review when I'd been spoiled rotten with attention and freebies. You will just have to wait for Jimi Famurewa and William Sitwell's reviews who I was told had already been in before me. Over a beer in The Pelican, I came to a decision about restaurant reviews on this newsletter. If it's going to be difficult for me to remain undercover, then I need someone else to write reviews for me. There's only one man I know who can do that job, and that I can afford. I'll introduce him to you next week, if I can drag him out of his private members club long enough that is.

juliesrestaurant.com

Review of the reviews and For Old Dine's Sake will return next week.