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| - The Fig Tree is one of those Elizabeth area homes-turned-restaurant, where a husband and wife wile away the days gracing Charlotte diners with an ambrosial experience fitted to their ever-changing whim. The house itself is a quaint cathedral: rich hardwoods and heavy ceiling beams lending geometry to moss-flat midnight green walls, all stationed heavy around the gorgeous gray-brick of the tall fireplace. White-shirted staffers gracefully maneuver between the tight-spaced long tables, aprons ascoff, delicate hands keeping bottles flowing, and candle and laughter all else left to fill the space.
Not one accustomed to much fanciness, I relied on Xan and her upright properness to show me the way. Upon reception, our hostmistress - a diminutive, Mediterranean sprite, all done up in black against her olive skin and obsidian wave - checked our coats and handed us a number. I fought to keep my eyebrows from rising. We were profiled, the only ones yet there under the age of forty, and escorted to the far seats of a long table in the back of the second dining room. Given that guests must be seated together, I appreciated that our porter recognized we might not be the toothiest of patrons.
Our first glass, a delightful Sauvignon Blanc, was poured well in advance of the first course. Though I knew to save it for the meal, I'm a nervous drinker. So I downed it post-haste. "Would it be uncouth to order additional drinks?" I asked Xan quietly across the white-linened table. Behind us, a server approached a table of well-dressed Sicilians carrying a tray filled with Martinis, Champagne flutes, and some fuzzy-red cocktails. "No, I think we're good," Xan quipped. I ordered a couple gins-n-tonic.
A trio of thirty-ish dames were led in and ushered down in the seats next to us. One, a blazered judaical with tight pony and classy flair sat next to Xan. Beside her, a broad-nosed mousey blond. And to my right, a pale little midwesterner with jet-black bangs fronting her mushroom bob. I gave them each a clever wink. "Welcome to the kids table, ladies."
The handsome Jewish woman, a litigator, puzzled my quip. She then momentarily glanced around the room, assessing, and then back to Xan and me. "We ARE at the kids table, aren't we?" she said. I nodded and grinned.
The waiter returned with our gins - strong and crisp, as they should be. I snapped it back with a sigh and gestured a lifted toast toward Xan. She too presented.
The first course was rolled out soon thereafter - North Atlantic Pan-Seared Striped Bass over King Crab Ravioli and Spicy Creole Sauce. My mouth watered at the sight, and then drooled overflowing at the first taste. My eyes glistened and I closed-mouth bobbed my head up and down in Xan's direction. "Mmm, hmmm." She agreed. Our trio of table-mates, too, enjoyed the course. And ours being long swilled, let us know that the Sauvignon Blanc served as fitting accompaniment.
Our second course brought us Barlow's Merlot along with Poulet Rouge Chicken Confit over Kalamata Olive Polenta Cake with Smokey Tomato Sauce. It also brought me my second gin-n-tonic. My palate seared and sweltered, overcome by the onslaught of smoke and savor. "Too much," I slurred. "Just too much."
Course 3 brought us a healthy glass of a rich Cabernet Sauvignon and a Red Wine Braised Short Rib over top Corona Bean Stew. Of the courses, we universally found this the least appealing. Though still delicious, the rib was neither tender nor tough, and the bean stew felt ordinary compared to what we'd already been offered. I asserted, though, that this may have been intentional. Like when a band plays a few hits in a row, then throws a couple obscure b-tracks at you, just to set you up for inevitable crowd-pleasing fan-favorite finale.
Course four put us over the top: Barrouge (Barlow's table red) paired to a Roasted Duck Breast over Quinoa and Macadamia Nuts with Pomegranate-Port Gastrique. Giddy, nearly comatose, and teetering like jackal, I devoured the duck with no pause toward class or reason. It filled me like a balloon, full up and floating high with fatty, nutty goodness. That one really did it.
"Wait," the mousey blonde interrupted. "Nothing so far has had bacon... why no bacon?" She was completely serious. I laughed, then considered. We all did.
"Bacon might have made sense with the short rib," said the litigator, "but not the others."
"But doesn't bacon go with everything?" asked the mushroom-bob.
I shook my head. "Bacon's a cruel temptress," I offered, "sometimes perfect, sometimes overpowering... she should be enjoyed with cautious reserve."
"You miss Hux, don't you?" Xan said.
"I do. But, I'm truly glad it's you here and not her."
Xan smiled.
Dessert was a Carrot Cake lined with Cream Cheese and Grilled Pineapple. Though not quite a match for the fourth gin-n-tonic I paired with it, my system appreciated the unusual influx of sugar and carb.
Before we left, I toasted our trio of new friends: "To the absence of bacon."
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