Anginares sounds like a medical condition, but it’s just the Greek word for artichokes, which I sampled in spades last week.

Have I mentioned I love artichokes? I think so. Some detractor I spoke with last week thought they tasted like cat pee–but I think they taste divine. Peter thinks the numbness they give you is a little like Sichuan peppercorns’ effect, which is true (memo to Jeff Steingarten: Please investigate chemical properties of both foods and report back).

Anyway, Peter was looking out for our artichoke interests and made us reservations at Pylos, a new Greek place in the East Village that was having a five-course all-artichoke tasting menu. (I know, it seems stupid to leave Astoria to get Greek food, but Diane Kochilas [look how cute she is!], author of The Glorious Foods of Greece, the book that helped us crack the purslane case, is the consulting chef.)

Five courses, artichokes in every one–heaven, right?

Well, I’m certainly not complaining about artichokes baked with goat cheese and caramelized onions; raw baby artichoke salad with kefalograviera; whole shrimp baked with artichoke hearts, carrots and dill; roast rack of lamb with artichokes a  la peloponesse (cinnamon, lemon zest, wine); and creme brulee with candied artichoke slices, all with matching wines, but…

OK, I guess I am complaining–I mean, there just shoulda been more artichokes! I didn’t want carrots, or cheese, or even shrimp. Or wine–artichokes make everything taste sweet and weird anyway. I wanted a giant Jacuzzi of artichokes to bathe in.

And now that I’m getting in touch with my artichoke needs: I want the whole artichoke. Sure, the heart is the best part, but one thing that makes it so good is slogging through all the leaves to get it–going from the leathery outside ones, which you have to place between your teeth judiciously and give a tough yank, to the softer middle layer, where you can scrape easily, to the very soft inner leaves, which you can just bite the bottom halves off of.

Sounds weird coming from someone with no work ethic, but cutting straight to the artichoke heart is just not rewarding at all. You need to also relish that “we’re in the homestretch now” feeling when you get down to those really flimsy, extra-curvy leaves in the center. And then the enforced pause to scrape out the choke…

And baby artichokes, which you can just eat whole–they’re great, but I feel kind of like a monstrous ogre popping the townspeople’s infants in its mouth like they were Raisinets. Tender, tasty, but just a little snack…

So, give me a big ‘un, and make me work for it. That’s what happened Friday night, chez Peter. Like the third-world grandma he really is, he carted back on the plane whole giant globe artichokes from the Santa Monica farmers’ market.

One benefit of buying at the source: an exotic purple variety (stronger flavor, according to the vendor), and the stems–six to eight inches’ worth–left on. A friendly passerby was quick to tell Peter that you could certainly eat the stems.

[I suspect I will be that passerby one day very soon, now that I’m giving my tendency toward know-it-all-ness and handy-tip-giving freer rein: “You can cook those beet tops, you know.” “Why, that’s purslane of course.” “Don’t miss those oysters on the chicken–here, let me gouge ’em out for you.”]

Anyway, those were the best goddamn artichokes I’ve had in years. They were enormous, and suffered none of the loss of flavor that over-large things often do. And because there was so much, I felt I could savor the leaves without losing out to a faster fellow diner. I could’ve spent the same time I spent at Pylos eating froufrou ‘chokes just eating one of these big boys.

Lesson learned (forget that “hard work reaps rewards” business): Don’t mess with success.