Figs Boston: Best Leftover Award

by janet on March 20th, 2009

Todd English had us by the balls while we were in Boston. My gang and I had earlier eaten the most delectable fish and chips (post forthcoming, one of these decades) at Kingfish at Faneuil Hall, and then wandered into Figs for dinner, not realizing that the mastermind for both joints was one and the same (and a very sexy same at that).

The wait was long, but not too long, and the hostess was scary, but not too scary. She didn’t write down anyone’s name ever, which alarmed me, and my blatant lack of trust was clearly pissing her off (thus the lil’ scary).

We were squished-seated in a tiny table, flanked by beautiful couples with large age differentials on both sides.   Since the restaurant was called Figs, we were first served some sort of genetically-modfied fig,  – round instead of tear-shaped and with a perfectly smooth skin, served in an interesting green-yellow fig oil. 

Oh, wait.  These are just olives.

Is anyone besides me not so into focaccia?  So much boooring texture.   Awful for sandwiches, never salty enough, dangerous for people with TMJ because it’s always so damn tall.  Lame.  Also- it’s usually paired with rosemary, which is an herb I am officially OVER!

Ugh.  So much grouchiness – not sexy.  No caffeine yet this morning and I’m sitting here annoyed because I was supposed to leave thirty minutes ago for a long road trip and flaky people are making me late.  And making me drive.  Grouch grouch grumble grumble.

When I was a lil’ Janet and I was grouchy, my dad would make me splash water on my face.  This made my face wet, which just made me angrier.  Fail.  I think the point was to refresh and then reset my mood.  If so, then this is the perfect post to be writing because it’s taking me back to the most wonderfully refreshing watermelon salad with arugula, crushed postachios, olive oil, feta cream, and balsamic vinegar, pictured top.  This salad wouldn’t work without a beefy, ripe watermelon, and that it was.  I wished the pistachios weren’t quite so mushy.  I know the feta cream sounds scary but like G’s porridge it was juuust right. 

Whoa what happened!  Why are we suddenly in the dark of the deep sea exhibit in the aquarium?  The service was a bit slow so by the time our pizza came out – Fig & Prosciutto with crisp rosemary crust, fig and balsamic jam, proscuitto, and gorgonzola cheese – it was night-time.  Doesn’t matter – we were fu-uuullll and had maybe one or two slices each of the gigaaantic pizza.  If you laid out every single card in a deck in a rectangular fashion, that’s how big it was.

Digression: I had a super silly chem teacher in high school, who used the Socratic method but not in a scary way.  Anyway, he would tell funny stories of how big of a loser he was when HE was in high school.  My favorite story was about when he was eating a roast beef sandwich when a cute girl he liked walked in.  In the story, he locked eyes with her as she walked by.

[Then he drew a rectangle on the blackboard with a squiggly line all the way through it.] 

“You know how, in roast beef, sometimes there are stringy things going through it? I don’t know if it’s tendons or what, but in this sandwich, the stringy thing started at one end of the sandwich and went all the way through it to the other end.  So I took a bite, chomped on the string, couldn’t bite through it, so I just kept eating more and more and more of the sandwich, until finally the whole thing was in my mouth.”

Can you imagine?  You’re some sweet cute girl, and this…guy!  Is staring at you!  And then he just stuffs an entire sandwich in his fucking mouth?!  You’d be sooo creeped out.  Hahahahha. 

Digression over.  The point of that digression: The prosciutto was like that.  One couldn’t get properly proportioned bites because it automatically entrapped one into a prosciutto vortex.   So you ended up with a piece of figgy bread with no prosciutto after the first bite.  Sad.  

We felt bad about the amount of wasteage – a vast grid of uneaten pizza.  So we vowed to give our leftovers to the first homeless person who was down on his luck.  We saw several folks lounging in doorsteps, but none looked down on their luck enough.  And then when we did find someone who looked pretty down on their luck, none of us could get up the courage to actually say the required phrase “Excuse me, sir, are you down on your luck?”  which we decided was obligatory before handing over any leftovers.

So.  In the end the pizza ended up on my hotel bedside table overnight.  And it was the ultimate “resting” period.  The proteins in the prosciutto broke down, the fig jam had gelled into a soft caramel, and the crust had gotten nice and superchewy.  And, it was channeling a real breakfasty vibe with the sweet, doughy, and hammy.  I still crave crave crave this for breakfast, seven months later.  So delicious – like doing ecstasy in heaven!  Trust me, I’ve done it before.  Awesome.

42 Charles St
Boston, MA 02114

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