And so the show and the show within the show are a little chaotic and overambitious. But they are still as joyous as a rich, buttery sauce poured over a lobster à l’Américaine, or a French peach no less divine for its imperfections. As Julia (and Julia) reminds us, things don’t have to be flawless to be delicious.

In the end, the show prioritises taste over bite. But that’s no bad thing.

Julia is a uniquely indulgent watch, erudite and gorgeous and heady. It isn’t without its flaws: season two needs more Julia, and it takes its time to work on the winning recipe, but it is such a warm pleasure that it’s easy to simply sink in to its richness, pastry fish and all.

Broadly speaking, Julia series two – like great French cuisine – gets the balance right.

Julia continues to tell the story of Julia Child’s rise to pop culture ubiquity in a way that’s funny and warm, with an ensemble of well-written characters whose stories we also want to follow.

There’s seemingly little room to share in that spotlight, though, with Julia failing to treat its fellow female characters with the same depth that it does its grand dame of cooking; their plates simply aren’t as nourishing, at no fault to the performers. .... But it’s still a meal worth having, such a distinctly sweet and sumptuous thing that you likely won’t even notice the bloat until long after it’s over.

In this second series not much happens at all. Some episodes are so “leisurely” that they make a sloth look speedy. But I imagine few viewers are here for the plot. It’s Julia’s character and the visual feast that is the draw.