physic garden madness

It was the most perfect summer's day: sweltering at 10am, wall to wall sunshine, scandalously blue skies. Good only for lying, panting in the shade and for the sublime evening that follows.

The dying day was cooler, the breeze balmy, and the proximity to midsummer stretched the evening to romantic proportions. Perfect for a surprise trip to the ‘Rambulance’ pop up supper club by Rambling Restaurant, hosted in the Urban Physic Garden.

A derelict site next to a train line, it looked an anxious, infertile spot. But once we had been admitted through the gates we found an oasis – never has the word been better employed – of herbs, trees, flowers and shrubs, each organised, tidy as a librarian, into the ailments they are said to alleviate.

To one side long table was set for supper, the rather home-made white awning, happily redundant on this cloudless evening. We dropped our bag next to our camping cutlery and jam jars (for water, of course – and a plastic measuring beaker for the gent) then headed into the garden. We looked at the beds of greenage to cure gastric problems, eye health and such. An imaginative irrigation system dripped water from pipes rigged above the plant beds, lending a lush, rain forest feeling.

Behind the ‘treatment room’ we found a skip-cum-ping pong table, and tried our hand. Then played on a complex three-part, jointed see-saw. Just as we were exploring the dispensary of pills, we felt it was probably time for supper. We sat down to sautéed mushrooms on lightly toasted ciabatta with salad leaves including various healing herbs. The salad dressing was reverently passed around in its huge plastic syringe.

The table was full and communal and we discovered we were seated with the most fun, interesting and lovely people: so lucky! Three lived nearby, one had an acquaintance in common with the gent, and conversation moved between teaching art, parking Borris bikes and London.

Next we had barbeque pork with a herb chimichurri, with a lovely sharp, vinegary mix of roast cherry tomatoes and cannellini beans, and potatoes. The generous rim of fat on my pork was well judged and much appreciated. Wine was byo and the gent matched the food brilliantly with a light, strawberry Fleurie which, after an afternoon refrigerating, came to a perfect coolish temperature by the time it was welcomed into our glasses.

The cooking was undertaken inside, and next to, an ex-ambulance. I took a good look on my way to the compost loo (which promised to turn our poo into gas to fuel the ovens): washing my hands outside in a free-standing china sink I couldn’t help but think what an unusual set up it all was!

A finale of cheesecake and crème brulee finished the evening. By now the sky had deepened but not quite reached full night. Still warm, we took the tube to Green park and opted to walk from there: it seemed a pity to not be outside.

If I were to be picky then there were inconsistencies in the meal: crispy charred pork to my left, rather less cooked to my right; lipstick on the wine glass. But the whole evening was so generous and entertaining that criticism feels out of place.

The gent and I agreed that were we to cater such an event, it would be easier to do a pork belly rather than chops. Belly is far more forgiving on timing so it wouldn’t matter if proceedings were delayed – it couldn’t be overcooked – and it would require no last-minute attention, except in carving.

The evening left the warm impression of an inventive use of neglected land, some delicious food and good company. And more herbal knowledge than I expected to come home with.