I would never have imagined writing two consecutive posts about figs. I enjoy figs, don’t get me wrong. But not the way I gobble up plump cherries in the early summer, at a rate so frightening that my children barely get to taste any and usually come back from school to an empty bowl. Or not with the anticipated pleasure of peeling a bright, tart, but deliciously sweet Sicilian orange on a dreary winter morning. Figs are more of an intellectual pleasure if I’m being perfectly honest. I appreciate them as a symbol more than something that I actively seek for the gustative pleasure it gives me. Spotting them on food stalls at the farmer’s market or the local grocery store when coming back from summer vacation is what it’s all about. Whereas one had to look for them in New York, figs are everywhere in France in September, and I do not need to scour the fruit aisle at Fairway to unearth a pack of California Mission beauties from under a pile of random packages of prunes and Israeli dates. In Paris, they are so overwhelmingly HERE that there is just no avoiding the invitation – the pressure? - to make something with them, even at this time of year when one truly doesn’t have the time. By the end of September, when blackberries, blueberries, and the last raspberries have given way to grapes in all kinds of green to purplish hues, figs are still very much present and seem to be nudging you to do something more. A pie you hadn’t thought about, maybe, or just a lazier operation consisting of turning on your oven and sticking the fruit in there with a drizzle of honey.
One fig dessert per season is generally enough for me, to be perfectly honest. But as I walked past the stalls of the Grenelle market last week – a big, somewhat dreary affair stretching under the metro tracks between the Dupleix and Motte Piquet stations, – an image, and a smell, suddenly rushed back to me. How could have I forgotten? This used to be the only dish I ever made with figs when I lived in New York, where no one seemed to be buying them and none of my family members really enjoyed eating them raw as a snack, no matter my perseverance at setting them on the countertop throughout September. So, I just kept neglecting them, as it was not a fruit that I remember my mother or either of my grandmothers ever cooking or even simply having on hand. But when I bought the Zuni Café Cookbook at our beloved San Francisco restaurant one summer, one of the dishes that caught my attention and that I kept making over and over – come to think of it, this might be the only dish I really ever made from that book, - was the braised chicken with apple cider, figs and honey. I mean, just the name of that thing sounded dreamy. And what better way to sneak forgotten, mushy California figs into my family’s plates than to hide them under crispy chicken thighs and coat them with a syrupy, sweet but slightly tangy, vermouth-flavored sauce? Trust me, there is no better way. And not better introduction to autumn at the end of what invariably ends up being an exhausting and increasingly warm September.
Zuni’s braised chicken, to me, was always the perfect companion to this transition into Fall. It was still late-summery enough that figs were available at the farmer’s market – or Fairway, to be less fancy but much more accurate. But autumnal enough that one was inclined to make a stew. If not the first stew of the season after a dozen weeks of surviving on tomatoes, mozzarella, melon, and the occasional unfussy grilled fish and roast chicken from the farmer’s market. So, of course, this was going to be the last dish involving figs, and the first braised anything since as long as I could remember. Which was the case last night, when I also found myself sipping hot tea while doing homework with my seven-year-old, for the first time since probably the last chill of April. September was hot in Paris, and on Monday afternoon it was still 85°, which put me in a prickly mood. It was officially the second day of October, and after scoffing at the rare Parisian Starbucks for advertising their Fall lattes by the middle of August, I was finally ready for pumpkin spice. For warm apples, and cinnamon, and all things butternut squash. NOT for another round of heirloom tomatoes and other cold, antipasti-type dinners, no matter how often those have saved the day this summer.
But yesterday, finally, I was compelled to grab a cardigan and mechanically turn on the kettle while asking what dictation words should be reviewed that afternoon. My son was seated at the kitchen table with his “ardoise”, the rectangular dry-erase board that has been the mainstay of French elementary schools for several generations, including mine. I was grabbing my pink and grey herbal tea tin box from “Maison Adam” in Biarritz, and going for the forlorn “Detox” teabag that never gets picked but happened to find itself in the right place at the right time. I was dictating the words to my son while salting chicken thighs, chopping an onion, and quartering a handful of figs. Finally, after the September frenzy and the seemingly ungraspable new-school-year routine, I was home.
There was a moment, back in June, when that time of day became unbearable to me. I was dying for the school year to end and would have given anything to be able to escape and send a Doppelgänger in my kitchen for everyone to see, and nag, and tire, and just plain harass at times. She would have dictated the words and answered all the questions and placed last minute online orders for the missing camp raincoat in size 16 and the urgently needed soccer cleats in size 32. She would have sliced the bread and seared the fish and enjoyed her iced tea while idly chatting with her daughter about the school day. I, for one, did not feel any desire to be that person at that moment. And for reasons that are not quite clear to me, I didn’t, this year, find any real pleasure in cooking throughout the entire summer. But yesterday, my kitchen seemed like the right place to be. And the dreaded five-to-seven pm tunnel, the most perfect moment of the day. For the first time in weeks, if not months, I found peace and contentment in my domestic life, and felt simply happy to be a mother, at home with her children. Cooking was no longer a chore, and the “ardoise” an old friend I was happy to see. Thanks to the season’s last figs and an inspired recipe, I was, finally, where I was meant to be.
Chicken Braised with Figs, Honey and Vinegar.
From the Zuni Café Cookbook, by Judy Rodgers
Quick link here from the Los Angeles Times website.
Ingredients 4 chicken legs (about ½ pound each)
Salt
About 2 tablespoons mild-tasting olive oil
1 onion (about ½ pound), root end trimmed flat, peeled and cut into 8 wedges
About ½ cup dry white wine
About 2 tablespoons dry white vermouth
About ½ cup chicken stock
1 bay leaf
1 sprig fresh thyme
A few black peppercorns, barely cracked in a mortar
About 2 tablespoons cider vinegar
Preparation Trim the excess fat from the chicken, season evenly all over with salt (we used a scant 3/4 teaspoon per pound of chicken). Cover loosely and refrigerate. This is best if refrigerated 12 to 24 hours.
2
Heat the oven to 375 degrees
3
Pat the chicken legs dry; this will make them less likely to stick. Heat the oil in a 12-inch skillet over medium-low heat, then add the chicken legs, skin side down. The oil should sizzle, not pop explosively, when you add the chicken. Adjusting the heat as necessary, cook until the skin is evenly golden, about 8 minutes. Turn the legs over and color only slightly on the other side, about 4 minutes. Pour off the fat.
4
If your skillet is ovenproof, arrange the onion wedges in the spaces between the chicken legs; otherwise, transfer the chicken to a shallow flameproof braising dish that will easily hold the chicken and onions in a single layer and add the onions. Add the wine, the vermouth and enough stock to come to a depth of about 1/2 inch. Bring to a simmer and add the bay leaf, thyme and cracked black peppercorns.
5
Place, uncovered, in the oven, and cook until the meat is tender but not quite falling off the bone, about 40 minutes. The exposed skin will have turned golden and crisp, the liquid ought to have reduced by about half. Remove from the oven and set on a slight tilt so the fat will collect at one side of the pan.
6
Combine the vinegar and honey and warm slightly. This takes 10 seconds in the microwave. The vinegar should dominate but without making you squint. Trim the stems and cut the figs in half.
7
Skim as much fat as possible from the braising liquid, then set the pan over medium heat. Bring to a boil and swirl as you reduce the liquid to a syrupy consistency, about 10 minutes. Distribute the figs evenly around the pan, add about 2 tablespoons of the vinegar-honey syrup and swirl the pan to diffuse the bubbling, amber syrup without smashing the tender fruit. The sauce will be glossy. Taste--it should be rich and vibrantly sour-sweet. Add more of the syrup, to taste. The vinegar will fade with boiling, so simmer for only a minute or less.
8
Serve each chicken leg with 2 wedges of sweet, soft onion and 4 or 5 figs halves, bathed in a few spoonfuls of the sauce.
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