At the beginning of the third Blair administration I wrote a restaurant review column with Gary Barlow. “Table for Two” appeared in the sort of property magazine shoved through your door if you live somewhere smart — in this case, Notting Hill and Kensington, where Gary had recently moved from Cheshire. Before dining à deux for the first time, Gary’s people told me that the one topic that was absolutely off the table for two was Robbie Williams. Invariably, however, someone would stumble over during our suppers and slur “how’s Robbie?” Well, mostly. The only place no one asked after Williams’ well-being was Julie’s in Holland Park.
Why? Because Julie’s is the sort of restaurant where no one bothers you if you’re famous. Not least because, here among the most expensive residential streets in London, everyone looks sort-of famous anyway, whether the women showing off their glitziest party frocks with a flash of underboob, or the men hiding under baseball caps.
