A magical field hospital for vegetables: Turnips reviewed

Turnips is an haute cuisine restaurant inside a greengrocer in Borough Market in London. I suspect others will try this conceit soon — it is the sort of dishonest fantasy affluent anti-vax mothers enjoy as they peddle their oblivious self-hatred on smartphones made of minerals hewn by child slaves — but not like this. Turnips is indisputably magical. Perhaps I say this because it is almost completely outdoors but still warm. These are mad times, even for mad times.

Borough is a good place to feel the throb of the ancient city; but particularly now. It has the toughness and ennui of a district that says: global pandemic, kids? What else you got? Look at late-capitalist masculine inadequacy disguised as a skyscraper called the Shard. What else you got? Look at the replica of the Golden Hinde, the pinnacle of 16th-century luxe yachting and still it had Rattus rattus. What else you got? Look at Laurence Fox forming a political movement from the ashes of Lewis and Whatever Love Means: What else you got? I then imagine Borough burping in contempt and wiping its mouth.