Give a fig

A FIG eaten straight from the hand of the grower in a market on the Greek island of Santorini ruined me for figs for 20 years. So juicy and luscious was that fruit, and the 11 that followed it on that balmy evening, that all others I bought in this country—picked ahead of the glorious ripeness that figs are born to—felt like leather on the tongue.

- Mark Diacono

A decade ago, that changed. I had the great fortune of photographing Chris Achilleos’s allotment (do Google it), tucked behind a vast roundabout in Tottenham, north London. It was in this unlikely spot, in the most incredible allotment I’ve ever seen, that I ate the most remarkable fig I’ve ever eaten. Somehow, Santorini’s finest had been trumped by these urban delights.

I sat on the train home eating more; the palm-filling fruit splitting under the burden of their own ripeness, juice running through my fingers into a carrier bag I had the good sense to place between my feet. The succulence and depth of flavour was—Chris assured me—down to choosing the sunniest of sheltered spots, prioritising flavour when choosing the variety, feeding the plant well and being ruthless when removing fruit. I resolved to plant a few myself, as soon as I could.