An invitation to a lecture about the “cultural” part of agriculture, reminded me how rarely we think about food and culture. Joining the usually* delightful set of foodie monographs called “The Edible Series” published by Reaktion is a volume called Figs: A Global History by my friend and colleague, David C. Sutton, Director of Research Projects at Reading University. Its tone is odd and amusing – it’s a sort of polemic in favour of this fruit, and a bit defensive: the writer seems hyper-sensitive to any nuance of criticism of what he calls the fruit of paradise.
As the only negative thing anyone can or ever has said about figs is that they’re powerfully laxative, and as that, in some contexts anyway is surely a virtue, I’m finding it difficult to locate the opposition.
The author’s only contentious argument, it seems to me, is that the fig was the forbidden fruit of the Book of Genesis – and I’m convinced by his reasoning. Wild apples are poor things, probably originating in Kazakhstan, where very few scholars would think to site the Garden of Eden. I can’t see humankind giving up its innocence for a shrivelled, tough malus that probably resembled a rosehip more than it did a Blenheim Orange (or even a pretty but tasteless red delicious). A ripe, fragrant, seed-laden fig is much more tempting.
I am passionate about figs, because I’m so unsuccessful at getting consistent crops. Two or three summers ago we got dozens of figs weighing as much as 400g each from one of our two “Brown Turkey” trees; and once I remember harvesting ripe fruit from the better of the two trees in May. This year we’ve had two figs from one tree and none from the other. Neither my wife nor I has any clue about what we’re doing wrong. If I have any criticism of David Sutton’s charming as well as elegantly written and learned book, it is that I wish he’d answered this.
However, I did learn something elementary and crucial from Figs. I knew Ficus carica is a sort of botanical anomaly, as the fruit is really an ingrowing flower, and that it has to be pollinated, as it were, internally. I even knew that this job is done by the fig wasp, the tiny blastophaga in a process called “caprification.” What I did not know is that there are two forms of fig, and that one of them, usually called Adriatic figs, is generally self-pollinating – whereas Smyrna figs need the specialised wasps to do the job. “Brown Turkey” is of course an Adriatic fig, so the fig wasps that I thought we must be harbouring in our Oxfordshire garden are pure fantasy.
David Sutton has a wonderful tale to tell about the 19th century failures of the California fig crops – Smyrna figs – in the absence of the blastophaga. When the growers finally learned the hard-to-credit story of how figs become fertile, there of course grew up a business importing the microscopic creatures from the Middle East and the Levant to California. I wonder if the fig wasp has any negative attributes? Do they damage crops as well as pollinate Smyrna figs? I long to know.
In the meantime, though I had to buy fresh figs this year – here is a sketch for a recipe that makes wonderful use of them.
Mallards with figs and port
Cut ripe figs in half, and cook, cut side down, in a lump of butter in a sauté pan large enough to hold the duck(s) – about 3-4 figs per duck, until they caramelise just a bit. Add a few sprigs of thyme and a clove or two of minced garlic, and before it colours, pour in as much port as you feel you can afford to use (non-vintage – this is a good chance to use up some of a bottle of Ruby port that you’ll never drink). A bit of strong chicken, duck, game or veal stock can be added at this point. While the liquid is reducing by half, brown the well-seasoned mallards all over. (I find the George Foreman electric grill perfect for this, as it crisps the skin and marks it prettily.) When browned, put the duck(s) atop the figs and their liquid, and finish in a hot oven, The birds should still be pink when you carve or joint them, and serve with the figs, their sauce and a scattering of minced parsley.
Don’t worry if you seem to have too much liquid: you’ll simply be braising the ducks rather than roasting them. I’ve also done this recipe with pheasant, partridge and last week with a beautiful haunch of venison – red deer, as I dislike the soft texture of roe deer. If you want to roast the game, the secret is to make sure it is not immersed in the liquid, and that you do not overcook it. Excess liquid won’t go to waste; it will make a stunning soup.
* “Usually” because sometimes there’s a desperate omission or error. Sauces: A Global History by Maryann Tebben, published simultaneously by Reaktion, seems to omit any mention of Raymond Sokolov, The Saucier’s Apprentice, 1976, the definitive work on French sauces, the subject of her 3rd chapter: Hamlet minus the Prince of Denmark. And at least one of the food history books listed in her bibliography is highly suspect. Why are scholarly standards lower for food history than for other subjects?
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