Hunting Truffles

Chapter 1 The Truffle Market in Alba, ItalyThe heady aroma of white truffles filled the air in the cavernous marketplace. The sales floor was enclosed in a large makeshift tent which seemed to trap and accentuate the fragrance, but more likely it was simply the soulful scent of tartufo bianco, the little tuber memorialized in poems and culinary prayers around the world, that scented the air. The mouth-watering smell of this delectable condiment could send chefs into paroxysms of rapture, and cause diners to outspend their budgets. “One thousand euros for half a kilo?” The man with the stubby beard behind the counter cast a cold glance at his customer. The merchant was tending a small collection of chalky knobs, clumps unearthed just hours earlier, fungi whose unremarkable appearance disguised the truffles' starring role in modern cuisine. “E' ridicolo!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn't sell a half kilo of my truffles for less than two thousand euros!” His neighbor, also tending a counter with dusty tartufi displayed like prized jewels in a glass case, chimed in. “Si,” he said with a belly laugh. He considered the visitor, someone obviously not from Italy, and certainly not from Piedmont, where everyone knows the value of fine truffles. “These little gems are worth more than you know, but I can shave some off of this little one for that thousand euros you seem anxious to spend.” The customer, properly chastised and spotted as an amateur among experts, blushed slightly, but he pointed to one of the smallest knobs in the second dealer's showcase. “What does that weigh?” he asked uncomfortably. The trifolào, or truffle hunter, hoisted the gnarly nugget between his thumb and forefinger, eyed it closely, then lowered it reverently onto a scale set along the side of the counter. “About point-three kilo,” he proclaimed, with his right hand facing down, fingers spread and waving back and forth. “Maybe nine hundred euros. You want?” The startled customer was clearly taken aback. He had chosen the smallest truffle in the case and still couldn't imagine paying such a large sum for it. He had tasted the tartufo bianco before at restaurants and was admittedly smitten by it, and he wanted to take some back to the U.S. to treat his friends. But he couldn't bring himself to spend $1,000 for something so small. “Why is it so expensive, when I can have it in restaurants without feeling like I'm spending too much money.” The two trifolài smiled at one another, but tried to explain to their new guest. “Do you see those judges up there?” the second man asked, pointing to the raised dais where several men and women sat. “Yes, I do,” answered the visitor, hesitantly. “They are judges. They make sure that everything sold in this market is truly, and clearly, the white truffle of Piedmont, the most prized culinary treasure in all the world, tuber magnatum. The restaurants, well, they may slip in some truffles from other regions, or even some of the Perigord truffles from across the border.” He couldn't bring himself to say France, the source of black truffles, thought by most chefs as good, but not up to the quality of Italy's white truffle. “And besides,” added the first merchant, “the restaurant only shaves a tiny portion onto your plate, once, twice with a shaver, so there's not so much to have.” His counterpart was quick to add that truffles are so pungent that only a little is used in any case. “In fact, even this tiny nugget of truffle here,” he declared as he raised the one from the scale, “is actually enough to serve four or five people, for several meals. On pasta, risotto, omelette…capisce?” The visitor was impressed, but he couldn't part with 900 euros, no matter how much he liked his friends. He bade the merchants goodbye and meandered away, breathing deeply of the breath-taking aromas before sheepishly exiting the market altogether.