By Kitty
Name something worse than a mealy tomato. Okay, there are plenty of things—but for a long time, I vehemently denied all servings of this precious fruit. Perhaps my distaste for tomatoes originated from the wet, translucent slices that appeared atop my go-to Wendy’s order—the Spicy Chicken sandwich. Something I ate regularly in the early 2000s between school and soccer practice. I’d place my order at the drive-through, “Number six, NO tomato,” and if they didn’t heed my request, I’d fling the slice out the window of my mom’s Nissan. As I grew older and my palate changed, I came to find tomatoes acceptable, and now…I crave them.
If you exist chronically online or simply at the grocery store, you know that for the past few summers tomatoes have been having a moment. They’re being marketed as vibrant, fresh, and cool—it’s off the vine or bust! Have you heard of the “tomato girl”? She packs espadrilles for her summer in Salerno and has likely found a natural deodorant that works for her. I can’t relate.
I’ve recently experienced a few dishes that have contained confit tomatoes. Stewed low and slow in olive oil and aromatics, resulting in wilted, sometimes blistery fruit bursting with flavor. One serving and I completely forgot about their fresh-picked counterpart. I could bathe in this stuff. My first little taste came at the General Stanton Inn in Charlestown—their panko-crusted cod was presented over a bed of confit tomato and roasted corn succotash. I hit the motherload a few weeks later during an early birthday dinner at New Rivers in Providence.
I've driven by countless times, rolling down the hill and peering into the dimly lit restaurant wondering who was in there. Who was New Rivers for? Upon entering, I discovered a blend of local college students making their parents foot the bill, and martini-sipping couples who looked like they stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.
I started with a cocktail made from tomato-infused vodka that was blended up with lime and blackberry ginger compote. A dehydrated slice of tomato garnished the rim, adding an earthy fragrance each time you lifted the glass to take a sip. We ordered the tomato toast to start, and what was presented before us was enough to make me weep—two colossal slices of sourdough smeared with house-made herbed goat cheese and topped with what our server called "all-day tomatoes." My heart fluttered. It was a goddamn confit. I devoured the meal and wondered…was I the face of tomato girl 2.0?
Sure, the confit process robs tomatoes of their plump, smooth skin, but it adds depth to their flavor and highlights their bright acidity. The tomatoes atop my toast were left whole, and while caramelized, retained a firm bite that whispered, “We’ve still got it.” That’s what speaks to me about confit tomatoes. They can stand the heat.
I sang the praises of this tomato toast to anyone who would listen. Why settle for a drizzle of olive oil, when you could enjoy your tomatoes fully submerged? Shriveled and soaked, slick with oil like an 80s sunbather. Leaning into the lifestyle, I decided it was time for merch.
Tomato girls have opted for neon beanies emblazoned with an image of a fresh heirloom, but I needed something that would last for more than just a season. Confit isn’t a TikTok trend; my love is for the long haul. My commitment to the lifestyle is evident in the form of a black baseball cap, which Greg lovingly gifted me. No fuss. No cutesy iconography. Simply, “Confit Me”.
Name drops: General Stanton Inn, New Rivers
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Linda Liu1. See more of her work here.
Linda Liu is an illustrator and a designer based in Southern California with a taste for tactile textures, saucy shapes, and palatable palettes. She graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design and now works freelance and full-time so she can be a girl boss and a girl employee at the same time. She is the author and illustrator of Hidden Gem and Sour Apple.