Juliet, 49 London Road, Stroud, Gloucestershire GL5 2AD

The locals can’t believe their bloody luck – and the feeling is palpable

In 2018, amidst the controlled clatter of a kitchen backlit by hibachi flames and wreathed in smoke, stood a figure more apparition than man, gently picking dill. He exuded Hollywood war hero energy – the kind that causes tracer fire to bend, bolts to jam and fuses adequate enough to allow a righteous quip before detonation.

This was my introduction to Will Rees, head chef of the legendary Wilson’s in Bristol at the time. His baking skills would then see him open The Bread Shop before moving on to Hugo’s Greengrocer, credited with supplying high-quality goods to restaurants across the city. It was here that Rees also met Ollie Gyde, who trained under Adam Glover, head chef of The Woolpack in Stroud, their eyes presumably meeting across mounds of imported £2.50-a-pop Italian pears and tomatoes that inflict savage strains of petit mort.

Dan Chadwick, owner of The Woolpack, has now entrusted the kitchen of his latest Stroud opening, Juliet – named after his wife, to Reese and Gyde. No pressure.

I’ll be honest, the whole French bistro resurgence schtick bores the ever-loving arse off of me. Seemingly endless facsimiles of places like Bouchon bloody Racine designed to be a Lipstick Effect for Boomers, many seeking comfort, having been forced to sell one of their Provençal bolt-holes.

Juliet does possess a similar aesthetic of rich wooden furnishings and pristine white tablecloths. But ones protected with paper – the inference to get a little messy only seducing me further. Regardless, my arse remains secured with Juliet splicing French and Italian classics, where the revered Don Bocarte anchovy is the Pippin to a Michael Jordan of a menu.

Salame rosa, with its lava lamp fat kicking with garlic, is draped across girders of fryer-hot panisse, each concealing chickpea silt. Spirographs of peppercorn-studded salame Toscano practically render at room temperature; with a technicolour giardiniera of red pepper, green chilli, beetroot and mirepoix helping to scythe through the fat.

The mousse de canard is a fat, aeration-speckled credit card, with a magnet strip of crystal-clear beef jelly that we smear over ellipses of exemplary baguette. The œufs mayonnaise, using a 50/50 blend of vegetable and extra virgin olive oil, evokes another golden age – specifically 80s Madonna, sporting Don Bocarte braces.

Pert tangles of verdant puntarelle alla romana are naturally dressed with more of those blessed anchovies, some garlic, lemon and EVOO. A thatch of pomme allumettes accompanies a plump mosaic of tartare, capers and shallots packed into its crevices, the beef so supple it packs in being a solid at body temperature. Blushing vitello tonnato arrives on a warm plate – a first in my illustrious career of hoovering up any I come across, which unfortunately means it’s now likely tainted forever.

A nest of frisée cradling lentils arrives, mingled with properly thick lardons and croutons, crowned with the trademark glow of a Cacklebean egg. Half poussin soon follows, tumbled with fubsy, butter-foamed girolles, slaked in a pan sauce built with Moscatel vinegar and white wine into a caramel consistency, freckled with chives.

Hugely understated on paper, the ‘green salad’ underpromises and over-delivers by some margin. Picked from their walled garden at Lypiatt, it’s a clutch of vitality dressed accordingly: splashes of pink radicchio, land cress, mustard frills, baby blue dazzling kales, Castelfranco & butterhead.

Undoubtedly cooked by Rees is the red mullet. Iridescent flesh decouples with the weight of a glance beneath sugar glass skin, splayed over halved globe artichokes, simmered to a sigh; the EVOO, collagen and lemon juice forming an emulsified bullseye beneath. Meanwhile, a brace of chubby lamb chops is served with a generous dollop of Bagna Cauda; anchovies cooked in milk with rosemary, garlic, more colatura and EVOO.

It’s only their second week, and the feeling that the locals can’t believe their bloody luck is palpable. Ladies Wot Lunch™ are out in force, building palisades with empty wine bottles. Others are tucked away in the depths of private dining spaces, whilst one or two are simply buying a moment of peace, for the price of a coffee and madeleine.

I’ve made a big deal of Rees to the table, which he’ll hate, with the tarte tatin being a pillar of my effusion. Expertly skirting the hinterland between burnt and the sombre depths of caramelisation, it’s lifted with a spiking of PX vinegar, delivering something that Flava Flav might wear if he ever managed to refine with age.

The cheese course is a sage nod to the Sardinian influences of Juliet’s larder. An amber ooze of Cisto honey traces the edge of Ovinforth, creamy and dutifully funky, hidden under sheets of pane carasau. The chocolate cremeaux is this satin Little League football, anointed with what else but EVOO and finished with salt flakes.

Topping it all off are some madeleines cooked to order, perked with a little lemon zest. If you’ve just muttered something about St. John, then you’d be right; it’s a place that Rees regards with some affection, having been shaped by its alumni throughout the years. I hope you feel good about yourself. 

Am I a career creep? Definitely. But more like a proud, estranged parent than the woman from Baby Reindeer. Rees is a rare blood type, possessing both extraordinary talent and social skills unmarred by ego, representing a long-overdue shift from the machismo cringe which films like Burnt and The Bear celebrate. Is Juliet’s recruitment of Rees a source of deeply smug vindication? Of course it is. His cooking is as brilliant as I’ve always remembered. But it’s his teaming with Gyde and the agency that they’ve been given that signals the next step from these two personally. It's about bloody time, too.