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During the summer of 1994, I was lucky enough to land an internship with the International Herald Tribune in Paris. Even better, the studio apartment that I subletted from a friend who was studying there—she was gallivanting across Scandanavia that summer—was right over a wonderful little patisserie. Well, actually, it was 6 floors above, and this being Paris, i.e. no elevators, that meant that no matter how many wonderful pastries I consumed, the walk up and down from the studio would help me burn off all those extra calories.

My favourite snack that summer was composed of 3 simple things: a fresh croissant with a bit of nutella, stuffed with fresh strawberries. Any of you who have had the tremendous pleasure of enjoying farm-fresh French strawberries in June, at their peak, will understand my sheer enthusiasm for this berry. Unfortunately, most store-bought strawberries in other countries, including Singapore, suck. Fortunately for me, that summer I lived near a wonderful market, which I could walk to within minutes and often did. The strawberries I purchased from there and the other markets in town were tremendous. As were the many strawberry desserts offered at countless bistros. These berries were sweeter than any I had ever and, to this day, have ever tasted.

The above are some Japanese strawberries, purchased in Singapore at a Japanese supermarket at an exorbitant price. Sadly, while sweet, they are still no match for the berries of my youth. Hopefully, sometime soon, I can make my way back to France, this time with my wife, to feast on summer berries in June. That, in my opinion, would be worth travelling for.

About Aun Koh

Aun has always loved food and travel, passions passed down to him from his parents. This foundation, plus a background in media, pushed him to start Chubby Hubby in 2005. He loves that this site allows him to write about the things he adores--food, style, travel, his wife and his three kids!


29 April 2005


The strawberries of my youth has to be those we plucked from the patch at the back of the house in London.

It grew wild and lasted only a brief 2-3 weeks. Tiny burst of concentrated sweetness. Always a scramble with the cousins to pick them. Never enough to bring back into the kitchen.

One autumn we cleared the lawn, as is the thing to do you know, before we plant the daffodils and what-not bulbs. The exercise went a little too well. The next year the strawberries did not appear.


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