The word, I suppose, is perplexed. Or perhaps it’s baffled. Or maybe it’s just “why?” Turns of phrase are usually a strong suit but in its way, July has left me speechless. Or at least indecisive.
July is a badly named, poorly laid-out place in Fitzrovia, billed as a restaurant but probably just a wine bar in disguise. Excellent, expensive wine, and food that’s not beautiful — it’s too simple for that — but largely beautifully done. Stuff most want to eat: deep-fried cheese with mustard and cornichons, sausage with sauerkraut, chocolate and hazelnut cake. The crowd is cool, albeit with a goes-on-hikes vibe — clad in Patagonia, but likes Khruangbin, that sort of thing. There’s a lot to love. Well, actually, that’s the snag: what there is, is lovable. There’s just not much of it.
