If you are lucky enough to reach a reasonable age, you can bet that if you haven’t had a serious time to navigate there is likely to be one not too far away. Some summers ago, on the north coast of Brittany, with the consolation of seafood high on the list of priorities, was one such time. Below where we were staying, a very fine restaurant - a single Michelin star, and much character; outside it, a line of planters spilling over with society garlic, its small trumpet flowers Fred Astaireing in the breeze climbing the hill from the river.
In French, English and somewhere between, the owner and I chatted: I’d never seen society garlic at a restaurant before; what did he use it in? He was growing them for their looks and had no idea the flowers were edible, never mind delicious.
Later that day, I sat on the beach and drew an invisible line in the sand: I accepted that things would be good again, however unlikely that felt. As I walked past the restaurant on the way to the flat, the owner waved me over, beaming: the society garlic had made that evening’s menu.
Every spring when they flower, I remember that day, the owner and that restaurant, and that the line in the sand worked very well.
Into The Garden: Society garlic