Edible San Francisco

Although the strawberry we're eating today is the product of crossbreeding that's been going on since the sixteenth century, he goes on to say, "What's missing most from commercial berries is fragrance, the original quality that gave the strawberry genus its name, Fragaria. Only in 1926 did scientists discover why the different species are not readily compatible: the wild and musk species have fewer sets of chromosomes than modern strawberries. Alas, no other fruit has been so radically transformed by industrial agriculture. Breeders over the decades have selected varieties for large size, high production, firmness, attractive color, and resistance to pests and diseases; flavor has been secondary."



Because strawberry plants grow so close to the ground, they are particularly susceptible to soil related illnesses, making for heavy reliance by some commercial growers on the soil fumigant methyl bromide. It's no secret that a berry grown without this chemical tastes better than one grown with it, simply because the red fleshy berry is basically a sponge, becoming fatter with water and poison if that's all the farmer is feeding it.



While working at the French Laundry I got to know the owners of Middleton Gardens, Malcolm and Nancy Skall, city dwellers turned organic farmers. Malcolm commanded attention, both for his contrastingly patterned outfits of stripes and checks—all held together by his signature red suspenders—and his warm, straightforward, personality.



He took to calling me Sweet Pea and when I met Nancy one evening as they came in for dinner, she presented me with a bouquet of the sugar scented flowers and an open invitation to come to the farm. Middleton Gardens, a compact, eight-acre plot, is like the secret garden, a hidden nook and cranny in Sonoma's more rural wine grape growing region.



Nancy's produce was expensive, even by the standards of the specialty goods we were buying at the French Laundry. But what produce we did manage to buy and use produced hushed reverence from even the most skeptical palate. Shallots so tiny, sweet and rosy, that I begged Thomas Keller to let me make an ice cream from their caramelized husks. Raspberries with enough technicolor—flavor saturation to explain away the exorbitant price tag. Strawberries still warm from the morning's teasing valley heat, exuding a sweet red scent—a perfume as floral as roses, powerful as the deepest musk.



My pastry chef, Stephen Durfee, and I made sure to keep them from being refrigerated, trying to preserve their utter strawberriness.



When Thomas promoted me to pastry chef at Bouchon he told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would not be allowed to buy berries from the Skalls. For the volume and level of desserts I was expected to create at his new restaurant, the produce from Middleton Gardens was far too dear. It was an emotional talk, because he knew that I had become close with the couple and had fallen in love with their fruit.



One day, well into spring the following year, Malcolm showed up. Cutting a large grandfatherly figure, in his hands he held one small pint of Nancy's perfect strawberries. A gift.



"These are for you," he said softly. I took them carefully, wordlessly. Malcolm gave me a familiar look. I realized Thomas had not told him of our conversation. My voice was small, uneven. "I can't buy from you and Nancy anymore, Thomas has forbade me. He says I can't afford them."



To which Malcolm, in his unforgettable mischievous, wily way, leaned down to my ear and whispered, as if Thomas could hear his conspiratorial tone half a mile away, "I'll give you a better price."