Fancying Franklin Café – Boston

It seems like everything that bears the name Franklin is destined for greatness or at least memorable-ness, and Franklin Café is no exception. This obscure storefront with a cozy nondescript wood-paneled interior is a little South End hotspot of all-American comfort.

Few things provide more all-American comfort than heartwarming stories. And what story warms us more than that of former president FDR? The polio-to-crutches-man-who-led-this-country-out-of-a-depression-and-into-a-war inspires us in our darkest hour, and my Sweet Potato Soup must have been made with him in mind. This creamy sweet potato concoction creates a sense of security in the midst of my great depression - my New Deal of hope during this grueling season of residency interviews.

The Honey Crisp Apples was also like a president Franklin…Pierce. Remember him? He was the one who…ummm…does anyone remember what he did aside from not screwing up so badly we’d remember? The apple salad was festive and added a fruity fall feel, and its assembly was beyond reproach. But despite the best efforts of the pomegranate and almonds, this salad was forgettable at best.

Then came the carefully crafted Butternut Squash Agnolotti, which was clearly a culinarily-captured Rosalind Franklin. Ok, fine, so it’s not quite as impressive as discovering DNA but this agnolotti can get into my genes any day. If twist the ropes of agnolotti, they even resemble a double helix…if you really use your imagination. The chewy agnolotti had a creamy, sweet filling and cute little mushrooms for texture. The sage brown butter pulled it all together to make a perfect plate. Sadly, like Ms. Franklin, this dish was pure genius buried by the rubble of Watson and Crick’s Nobel-Prize-induced fame. My theory is that the dish itself was a bit pricey at $19 for 5 little logs of agnolotti, so they covered it with what suspiciously resembled remnants of the honey crisp apples to mask the puny portion. The pasta was perfect, but I would have liked if I didn’t feel like I was digging it out from the upended remains of someone’s half-eaten salad.

The agnolotti blew me away, but it’s the Butter Poached Cod that sings for itself. The tender, melt-in-your-mouth cod has a voice bigger than Aretha Franklin, and the fried Brussels sprouts croon with crunch. The eggplant and caramelized soy make me feel like a natural woman, and all together, this plate earned my R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

When the check came, I figured we’d need a lot of Franklins of the Benjamin variety, but the prices were reasonable with the exception of the agnolotti. The food was hardly as inventive as the famous Franklin, but the quality was as shocking as his discovery. Fortunately, eating at Franklin Café is a far less stupid decision than flying a kite with a key in a thunderstorm.