Figs and Philosophers

Come this time of year, you may find yourself scavenging for something yummy, festive, and good-looking to serve cocktail party guests or tote to a potluck dinner. You may or may not find yourself whipping up a plate of hors d'oeuvres for professors and graduate students of philosophy, but this was the predicament in which I recently found myself. Not sure if Ms. Stewart, epicurious.com, or the food channel could guide me here, I turned to a cookbook with a promising title: The Philosopher's Kitchen: Recipes from Ancient Greece and Rome for the Modern Cook.

I've dabbled in the pages of this beautifully photographed cookbook before. My first foray--a certain dish featuring scallops, fried garlic, and an arugula-mint cream sauce--has earned a rotating space in my dinner party repertoire. I've not revisited the trout custard since I discussed it here, but only because the opportunity has not presented itself...fish, eggs, and cream not being an often appreciated combination. The lamb skewers with mint marmalade are divine, and the chicken with plums has been recommended to me by a genuine philosopher, though I haven't yet had the chance to try it. In short, the recipes in this book will please the 21st century palates of your friends and family despite being written almost 2,000 years ago. Ms. Segan has kept her recipes true to their ancient origins by steering clear of the tomatoes, corn, potatoes, and chocolate not available to Greek and Roman cooks; but she has fulfilled her subtitle's promise by tweaking the recipes of Apicius and other ancient gourmands for today's cooks.

In other words, this stuff tastes good. As someone who has participated in a Roman banquet or two, I can say that this cookbook tastes like antiquity, but without the cloying amounts of honey, ubiquitous fermented fish sauce, and underseasoned meat. These dishes need not be eaten while wearing a bed-sheet toga. I'm sure I could pull them off in any dining setting, without even disclosing their ancient provenance. But if the mouths you will be feeding fancy themselves philosophers or know how to read Latin, all the better. The Philosopher's Kitchen's assorted fig appetizer is a personal favorite of mine. It has proved to please modern tastes, but, I wondered, what about the philosopher's palate?

The Philosopher's Kitchen is a bit of a misnomer. Having praised its recipes, I can ask, without much guilt, why Ms. Segan attributed these re-worked recipes to the kitchen of a philosopher. The philosophers of Greece and Rome, I feel compelled to say, were not gourmands in any sense. There was no philosopher's kitchen. If there had been such an establishment, where the meaning of Plato's forms were contemplated along with the steps required to make a good stuffed fish, philosophy as we know it may have taken an entirely different course. It turns out that philosophy and food, like vinegar and oil, don't mix so well.

I'm sure that ancient philosophers ate. A few of them may have aimed at transcending the exigencies of the body, but the success rate had to have been low at best. Epicurus, that Greek philosopher whose name has become equivalent with the pleasures of the table, would have certainly shuddered at the thought of a three star restaurant, and perhaps at the thought of a successful cookbook. If a philosopher's kitchen ever existed, its discovery would have meant disgrace upon the philosopher who dined on its dishes.

Epicurus urged his disciples to tame their bodily desires, avoid luxury at all costs, and follow a spartan's diet. Eating food may have been a necessary pleasure, but not one to be cultivated. Hunger and thirst, he reasoned, must be sated so that rumbling bellies and dry mouths would not hamper the pursuit of truth. The desire to dine was a distraction at best, a trouble in its own right, at worst. "Send me a little pot of cheese," Epicurus wrote, "so that I can indulge in extravagance when I wish."

Burdened with this history, what does one prepare for a gaggle of hungry philosophers? In his Republic, Plato envisions his city's inhabitants subsisting on a diet of barley and wheat flour loaves. It takes Glaucon's panicked interjection--"It seems that you make your people feast without any relishes"--for Socrates to grant them salt, olives, cheese, root vegetables, beans, and, lucky for me, figs. I'm not sure he would have approved of The Philosopher's Kitchen's figs, which, lined up on a white platter, look like edible gems. But figs they are, if a bit embellished.

At this particular holiday party, I witnessed philosophers pausing their philosophizing to pop a fig into their mouths. It seemed to me that they were able to resume their arguments on the validity of the death drive, the genius of Nietzsche, and other wine-soaked subjects after they swallowed.

Assorted Fig Appetizer
Adapted from The Philosopher's Kitchen: Recipes From Ancient Greece and Rome for the Modern Cook. Serves 8-10.


24 whole dried figs: It doesn't really matter if you use Mission or Turkish, as long as they have a nice shape (not too flat or squishy).
1 cup white wine
4 teaspoons marscapone cheese, stirred to a smooth consistency
zest of one lemon, finely grated
3 tablespoons finely chopped pistachio nuts
2 teaspoons honey
4 ounces thinly sliced prosciutto

1. Bring figs and wine to simmer in a saucepan over medium heat. Reduce heat to low, cover, and continue to simmer until the figs are soft, about 5 minutes. Remove them with a slotted spoon.
2. When figs have cooled enough to handle, cut 1/4 inch off the tops of each one. You may need to reshape the figs a bit at this point, rounding them out and pressing them to create a bottom flat enough for them to stand up on a platter. Top 8 figs with 1/2 teaspoon marscapone cheese and sprinkle with lemon zest.
3. Place chopped pistachios is small dish. Drizzle a little honey (warmed if necessary) onto the tops of 8 figs and then press cut side of figs into pistachios to coat.
4. Make a small cavity in the tops of the remaining 8 figs with the tip of your finger. Cut the prosciutto into 1/2 inch wide strips, roll into 8 small bundles, and press one into the cavity of each fig. You'll likely have a bit of prosciutto left over. Eat it secretly in the kitchen.
5. Arrange figs on platter and serve.