The Paradox of the Strawberry

A couple of years ago, I was looking for some fraises des bois--wild strawberries. I tracked down a source and asked him if he would send me some.

“No,” he said. “They are just too fragile.”

I told him I’d pay for overnight shipping.

“They’re just too fragile,” he repeated.

Well, couldn’t he wrap them carefully? Same answer. How about if he wrapped them carefully and packed them in a padded box? Same answer.

Finally, I resorted to begging. I really wanted those berries.

“Well, I won’t take any responsibility for it,” he said, “but if you want them, I’ll give it a try.”

The next day, a big box with “Fragile” and “Delicate” scrawled all over it arrived. Inside was a mass of newspapers surrounding a smaller box. Inside the smaller box was a mass of tissue surrounding an even smaller box. Inside the smaller box was a pint of fraises des bois. Crushed.

But oh, what an aroma! Those little beat-up berries smelled like some exotic confection--spicy and sweet with maybe a touch of something candied. Still, they were useless, a pulpy mass good for nothing.

And therein lies the paradox of the strawberry. The best berries are too delicate to ship. And a berry that’s smashed and bleeding when you get it isn’t of much use no matter how good it tasted originally.

This paradox is being played out on a grand scale across California this year as growers bolt toward the new Camarosa variety of strawberry. It’s big and it’s firm and you could probably send it regular mail to New York and still have it look good.

It’s also great to harvest. It comes on early, when prices are high. Because of its firmness it doesn’t bruise in picking. And it bears fruit at a regular pace, unlike the previous favorite Chandler, which comes in fits and starts--overwhelming pickers one week and screeching to an almost complete stop the next.

But the Camarosa just doesn’t have much flavor.

After a month spent talking to strawberry growers, reading about strawberries, walking through strawberry fields, picking strawberries and tasting strawberries, I’ve got to say that the Camarosa will never be a great strawberry.

Oh sure, a top-notch Camarosa--and I had a few--can be a good berry, maybe even a very good berry. On some days, it may even be better than an average Chandler.

But it will never compare to a good Chandler, a berry that at its peak has a deep, winey complexity that can make the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

At its worst, the Camarosa is a crunchy, tasteless thing. I tried to crush some with a fork and bent the fork. They’re the image of a strawberry but certainly not the reality.

Still, I can almost guarantee you that all of that won’t make a bit of difference to growers. Almost every berry you buy in a grocery store today is a Camarosa and that’s not likely to change. It’s just too farmer-friendly.

First farmed on a commercial scale in 1993, the Camarosa by last year made up about half of the Southern California strawberry harvest. This year it’s virtually 100%.

To find Chandlers, you’re probably going to have to go to farmers markets. The best farmers market berries I found generally came from the stands run by the Iwamoto-Gean family (Harry’s Berries) and the Tamai family.

Harry’s Berries offers Chandlers and Seascapes, a berry that is typically only grown in Northern California. It’s a bit firmer than a Chandler and has a nice acidic tang. I actually favor it for making preserves. The Tamais grow Chandlers and Camarosas.

If you buy Camarosas, choose those berries that are darkest. A really ripe Camarosa is almost maroon--in fact, one of the biggest problems with the berry is that it’s usually picked red, which is underripe. Chandlers, on the other hand, have an almost orange-ish cast to them when really ripe.

That said, it should be pointed out that strawberries are remarkably erratic fruit--especially the Chandlers. They can be wonderful one week and average the next. The only way to buy is by tasting. Trust your palate and pick whatever tastes best on that day.