At Wimbledon, the strawberries and cream deliver

Globe and Mail

2 days ago

One does one's best always to avoid cliches, but some are unavoidable.
I've been to Wimbledon a half-dozen times. I haven't bought the famous towel. I haven't had someone take my picture in front of the Fred Perry statue. I don't wear a Panama hat.
And I've never had strawberries and cream.
'Never?' says the lovely woman who runs PR for the food and beverage end of the tournament.
Never.
'You're joking?'
I am not.
'Well, we can get you some.'
We're standing in front of the Strawberries and Cream kiosk, where at noon, the line is expanding exponentially. It's like it's growing people. We're waiting on Joe Furber, Wimbledon's food and drink operations manager.
As he rolls up, she turns to him.
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'He's never had the strawberries.'
'Really?' says Furber.
Really.
'I can go back there and get you some right now,' he says. He does so in a tone that suggests I am not appreciating the level of strawberry emergency we're all in right now.
No, I'll line up with the rest of the plebs (most of whom look like they could buy and sell me).
In the course of a life on the edges of sport, you will eat many things, most of them terrible. At the Sochi Olympics, they served a 'hot dog' that was the only inedible example of sausage I've ever had, wrapped in a mysterious glutinous material so thin that it wasn't a crepe. I'm not sure what it was, but it was the only thing you could get at whatever event I was stuck at that day. It was horrendous.
I had the borscht once, and it was so greasy you could've undercoated your car engine with it.
After that, I gave in and started going to the one McDonald's they had on the grounds. It was the only place you could get a salad. It was rammed day and night.
Still, some regional specialties demand trying. I've had bratwurst at the World Cup in Germany (overrated), biltong at the one in South Africa (dangerously addictive) and an egg sandwich at Lawson's during the Tokyo Olympics (transportive).
On a list of iconic foodstuffs, I'd put pimento cheese at the Masters and Nathan's Famous hot dogs at a Yankees game on top.
At the media spread in Augusta, they keep a fridge topped up all day with the tournament's signature sandwich. Hundreds of them. Dainty little things. They're free.
Only shame prevents you from standing there eating two or three at a time. Still, I would never make one at home. It's a Masters thing.
In the old Yankee Stadium, they had a hot dog stand inside the press box. The hot dogs were free, but should you choose not to tip the servers, light would begin to bend around your body in such a way that you became invisible. Those were the best hot dogs I've ever had. So much snap on the exterior, so much salty umami in the interior. A perfect hot dog, every time. How often do you have anything that's perfect?
Aside from a mint julep at the Kentucky Derby, I believe strawberries and cream are the only sports food icon that eludes me.
They raised the prices on them this year, which is what got me thinking of them. The Mirror described the increase as 'staggering.' They've gone up to £2.70 from £2.50. That's a difference of 37 cents. Tax included.
These are some serious strawberries. They are all grown on a single farm 50 km from the All England Club. They begin harvesting them on the first day tournament. They will be in season for a few weeks, but they are at their best during the two weeks of the tennis.
The strawberries you're served were picked that morning, beginning at sunrise, and start showing up on the grounds at 9 a.m. They open the kiosk at the same time as the gates, an hour later. Whatever isn't used that day is turned into a house jam.
I waited 18 minutes to be served -- something I would not normally do. One of my rules for life is that the only things I (grudgingly) line up for are airport security and the checkout at Costco.
The strawberries come in one of those cardboard boxes I associate with New Yorkers eating takeout Chinese in the movies. Your cream options are the real thing or a 'plant-based alternative,' which sounds ghastly. The spoons are somehow of made of seaweed, but not edible (I tried).
You get exactly 10 strawberries of average size. The cream is unsweetened, thankfully. They pour it in front of you with flourish, like a dairy sommelier.
How are they?
I like strawberries the way we would all like a life partner -- tender, with a nice balance between sweet and tart.
No point in playing it cool -- Wimbledon strawberries are bananas. They are the bee's knees. I went out later and bought a pint of a less refined variety at Tesco to prove to myself the difference, and it was vast.
It's human nature to remember great food better than anything but than the most remarkable events. This must be some caveman remnant. You remember the way to the place where the berries were least poisonous.
A food memory is inextricable from place and company. When your time is up and you run through a rack of flashbacks of your life, I would bet more than a few of them will be meals you had with the people you love. No one I loved was there just inside Gate 4, if you don't count the Australian film crew badgering people about how much they liked the strawberries. But having been set up so well by history, I won't forget them.
One of the nice little things about Wimbledon is that they let you bring in your own food, but they really want you to try the strawberries. For a very reasonable price, they are offering you the chance to manufacture a memory.
'You're very welcome to bring your own,' said Furber, the food manager. 'But I guarantee you that ours are better.'