RESTAURANT REVIEW : Interesting Idea a Mixed Bag at Figs

The fig’s only commercial success in our land has been in the curious form of an extruded cookie, the Fig Newton. Beyond the fig itself, the fig leaf has enjoyed the controversial status of being both the first fashion statement and the symbol of bodily shame. The now archaic verb to fig actually meant to dress or adorn; one figged out , or figged up. Someone all gussied up was in full fig.

Figs, the new restaurant inhabiting the old Alouette premises in West Hollywood, is not figged out or up or in full fig. The walls and acoustic-tile ceilings have been aged with a sponge and paint. In one dining room, there’s a piano strewn with desserts. In an alcove, a white plaster statue wears a prominent fig leaf. Other than these eye-catchers, there’s not much in the way of decor.

Still, I’m drawn to Figs in concept. The cooking sets out to be a modern mixture of mom’s home cooking, bar ‘n’ grill, and American-French M.C.E. (Maurice Chevalier Era), plus contemporary pasta, pizza and Caesar salad. The presentation is minimal--not even a decorative sprig of parsley.

The mom-type cooking includes pale, sweet meat loaf; creamed spinach; sweet corn pudding; and notably lumpless, appliance-processed, gluey mashed potatoes.

Hard-boiled eggs in salads was a proclivity of the generic ‘50s mom, designed to squeeze yet more protein into post-war high-protein diets. In honor of this impulse, Figs offers the Mimosa salad, a lovely mix of Boston lettuce, grated eggs and a vinaigrette slightly thickened with mustard. The same soft rain of egg also appears over an asparagus and fresh tomato salad. Then there’s an iceberg lettuce wedge dressed with particularly chunky, egg-rich Thousand Island.

The pre-nouvelle Franco-American flair is perhaps most charmingly alive in the boudin blanc , delicious fat white veal sausages with caramelized onions, grilled pears and, yes, grilled figs (they’re great!). I’ve had cheese souffles with better textures--a softer custard, a less leathery top--but I have no complaints about the flavor of Figs’ version. The osso buco --an Italian dish appropriated by a generation of wanna-be Left Bank bistros--was not quite falling-off-the-bone enough for my taste, though the bone itself was a gloriously large cavern of marrow.

Another old-line French dish, and one of Figs’ best sellers, according to one waiter, is the Society Duck, which appeared before me, unhappily, as a desiccated half-carcass straddling two dark pools of green peppercorn and wine sauce. A wad of sausagey mushroom stuffing in its little chest was burnt halfway through.

*

The bar ‘n’ grill aspect of the menu includes a 10-ounce burger, steak tartare, chili and barbecued ribs and chops. I tried the blackened Cajun-style pork chops, which are profoundly charred and therefore not for anybody who doesn’t prize burntness as a virtue.

On the other hand, a lovely chunk of salmon was grilled lightly and served with a perfect hollandaise. The Caesar salad was juicy and great, and would be one of my all-time favorite versions--had the lettuce only been fresher.

Of the more contemporary dishes, I liked a thin-crust fresh tomato, rosemary and white bean pizza. A mushy linguine was not redeemed by its good pesto or decently grilled shrimp--I was glad I’d opted for the appetizer size.

When it was time for dessert, our waiter had us stroll over to the piano for a good look at the various confections. The cheesecake was fluffy--exactly what a good rich cheesecake ought not to be. The key lime pie, overly sweet and well-jelled, reminded me that the pudding mixes of my childhood were the first things I learned to cook. The fig tart, thanks to a too-sweet pastry cream, did not pay adequate tribute to the elusive, subtle, intoxicating namesake fruit.

Figs, then, is a mixed bag. The presentation and decor here borders on starkness. Comfort food, so bleakly presented, reminds me too much of the melancholy one wishes to obliterate with the sure weight of meat and carbohydrates.

I’m not convinced that the eras evoked at Figs--life with mom, “Lily,” “ Gigi” and lots of meat and sugar--were actually all that wonderful. The house nostalgia somehow also evokes the loneliness of the nuclear family exiled to suburbia with its hopes placed squarely on Ike and household appliances. For heaven’s sake, one wants to say, who cares about a few lumps in the potatoes? Mash ‘em by hand.

Figs, 7929 Santa Monica Blvd. West Hollywood, (213) 654-0780. Dinner Tuesday through Sunday. Beer and wine. Parking. American Express, MasterCard, Visa. Dinner for two, food only, $20 to $60.