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. 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
