Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog

by Jamie Ivey

  For a few minutes we sat and exchanged news, and talked a little business. Almost as an afterthought, I mentioned my truffle dog training and getting ahead of myself a little I asked where he bought his truffles and at what price.

  'We pay around nine hundred euros per kilo before Christmas and New Year and about six hundred euros thereafter. I offer truffle dishes until the end of February; after then I find the taste declines.'

  I'd feared that the truffle trade might work like the wine business, with restaurants demanding large discounts and then marking up the product for sale three or even four times. According to Eric, though, the truffle traders were able to set and maintain a price. Demand for the Provençal truffle was intense, with orders coming in from restaurants across the world. Moreover, top chefs only used the fresh product, unwilling to sacrifice the crunchy bite which disappeared on freezing. The season was therefore three months long and truffles were always scarce, with demand outstripping supply and the price per kilo rising consistently with the years. If I could just find some truffles, it appeared selling them would be easy.

  'One thing, though – I only buy from wholesalers.'

  My vision of the easy life, sitting on my terrace, piles of truffles around my feet, taking ever higher bids from international chefs ('Sorry Heston, there's nothing I can do – it's nine hundred euros a kilo or they're off to Gordon') vanished.

  'Why?' I asked in an embarrassingly plaintive voice.

  'First, there's theft; if I buy from just anybody, I have no way of knowing where the truffle has come from; secondly, I only buy truffles with a certificate of origin. I don't have time to examine them all, and eventually some shark is going to slip some Chinese ones in a batch.'

  'Are all restaurants the same?'

  'If they were, nobody would steal truffles.'

  'But the reputable truffle hunter sells to a wholesaler, who presumably takes a cut?'

  'Exactly.'

  At least with truffles the price could justify a middleman, whereas with wine it often couldn't. Before I even had to worry about these issues, there was still the problem of training Snuffle.

  'What have you tried?' asked Eric.

  'Saucisson, cheese, risottos, eggs, salads, you name it – if it's got truffle in it, he won't touch it.'

  'And yet you say he's a high-maintenance dog.'

  'Very,' I said, a little too assertively.

  Eric grinned. 'There's one thing you might like to experiment with; mind you, it's not going to come cheap.'

  He took a pen from the top pocket of his chef's whites and began jotting down a recipe. To read was to salivate.

  Cooking with truffles is so simple that even a child can master the art. First, wash the truffle and scrape away any excess mud. Then, cut the truffle in half and slice or grate over anything from salad to scrambled egg. There are, of course, a few tricks of the trade; for example, if cooking a risotto, it's best to leave the rice and truffle in the same jar for a couple of days. This way the individual grains release the infused flavour during cooking, which is then highlighted by the grating, moments before serving, of fresh truffle over the risotto.

  It's also important to be generous – at least 10 grams of truffle per plate is necessary, 15 if you are feeling rich or courting a partner. Apparently, the effect of excessive consumption is so pronounced that for some orders of monks eating truffles is inconsistent with their vow of chastity, so try 20 grams if you have misplaced the Viagra and want to pep up your sex life.

  The fact that truffles are often married with the most basic ingredients means that despite the price tag they are accessible to all. The most famous truffle chef in France is Bruno, who runs an eponymous restaurant near the village of Lorgues in the Var. One might expect his signature dish to be flamboyantly expensive, perhaps a filet de veau aux truffes, but instead its base is one of the most prosaic foods in the world. Served in company canteens topped with anything from prawns to chilli, microwaved in desperation by drunk students, the humble baked potato has no gastronomic pretensions, until, that is, it gets into the hands of Bruno. With a sprinkling of truffle and the secrets of his kitchen he transforms something typically coated in baked beans into mouthfuls of pleasure, where the earthiness of the truffle momentarily blends with the ethereal.

  There is one golden rule of truffle cuisine – never ever expose truffles to high temperatures. Baking, frying, poaching – anything other than scattering them over a prepared dish will kill the flavour and your investment. Rules, however, as Eric Sapet explained, can always be bent. The Provençal truffle, unlike, for example, the Italian white, can sustain a degree of heat and Eric's recipe, which he explained was an old classic of French cooking, took full advantage of this fact. It was, he claimed, an unsurpassable gastronomic experience.

  We tried the recipe that evening. Snuffle, who usually disappeared at the barest whiff of truffle, sat on the floor with his tail wagging and his nose quivering. Reaching for the oven gloves I checked the colour of the pastry. It was just off the required perfect golden brown. I returned the dish to the heat, noting Snuffle's annoyed bark. There was a chance that we'd found the dish that would cure his phobia.

  Tanya laid the table and poured two glasses of wine. The smell of the truffle was almost unbelievably strong. Our open-plan kitchen/diner/sitting room was suffused with a heavy earthy odour.

  'It's like living in a cave,' I said as I pulled the dish from the oven, trying not to trip over Snuffle as I did so.

  If the pastry had served its purpose, it would have shielded the truffle from the heat, allowing it to gently season the other ingredients during the baking process. With the point of my knife I punctured the protective shell and dodged a jet of steam pungent enough to send a monk scurrying for sanctuary.

  'Here goes…' I cut into the millefeuille of truffle and foie gras, serving three thin slices. Tanya and I tasted. A silence followed. Then both of us helped ourselves to another mouthful. Tanya looked up at the ceiling. Judging by the flavours in my mouth she could only be offering thanks to the heavens.

  'This is quite unbelievable. It feels like I'm not tasting truffle, I almost am a truffle,' she finally said.

  'It's like they fed the goose truffle for its entire life,' I added, shaking my head in amazement.

  'It's a shame to give it to the dog.'

  'A real shame.' Both our forks met in mock battle.

  'The French would think it sacrilegious.'

  Tanya mastered her hunger and put the dog bowl on the floor.

  Snuffle padded over, paced in a circle, and sniffed the air. Glancing up at both of us he feigned indifference and turned away, chasing his tail in a circle until he once again faced the bowl.

  'If he's not going to eat it, then I am.' I reached for the food.

  Snuffle was quicker, diving forward and landing like a pouncing cat with both paws either side of the bowl. Momentarily he inhaled and then with a delighted bark he ate his portion in one bite, before repeatedly licking the bowl and begging for more.

  Chapter 14

  The day had finally arrived. To celebrate we decided to have breakfast in the village cafe. The winter had been mild and the tables and chairs basked in the March sunshine. Stray dogs ambled past, delivery vans left their hazard lights winking in the street, and high above our heads flaking wooden shutters were thrown open. There was a pleasing hum of activity in which to sit and soak up the medicinal warmth of the sun. A messy dusting of pastry fell across the table as I opened the bag from the boulangerie. The croissants were still warm to the touch and neither of us had the willpower to wait until the coffee arrived.

  I'd put on my best shirt and trousers and Tanya had also chosen something a little more dressy than usual. There would inevitably be photos, and in years to come we would look back at this moment. Elodie, probably to her future chagrin, had been forced into a sailor outfit from a smart boutique in Avignon. I thought it looked ridiculous, but Tanya assured me it was very à la mode.

/>   'Nice day for it,' said Tanya, pulling her sunglasses down.

  'Couldn't be better,' I agreed.

  'Feels like we're shipwrecked sailors finally sighting land.'

  'Give me a palm tree, a pina colada, and a turtle to tow me ashore.'

  Nerves had put me in a frivolous mood. At times over the previous ten months I'd thought the project would never start. Now we were ready I was overcome with relief. All the administration, the wrangling over prices, the scheduling of the work, the worry over the foundations had finally come to an end. Brick would be placed upon brick and the home we hoped to live in for the rest of our lives would gradually emerge.

  The one reservation I still had was my relationship with Ange. In the musical Chicago, the lawyer Billy Flynn sings a song entitled 'Razzle Dazzle'. Flynn is defending a guilty client and he knows the only way to succeed is to distract the jury with a combination of magic tricks and fancy dancing. What follows on stage is an amazing combination of intricate footwork and sleight of hand.

  As we sat in the cafe, waiting to make our way up to the building site, I couldn't help but feel that Ange had being singing his own version of 'Razzle Dazzle' the morning he'd threatened to resign. Instead of being called to account, he'd left with an insouciant whistle and a click of the heels. Even now with the bulldozer waiting to go, there were still some grey areas on costs. However, we'd accepted we were in Provence and that pricing would never be as tight as we wanted.

  'Darlings, did I forget your anniversary?'

  Delphine pulled up a seat and the waiter instantly disappeared to fetch her regular espresso. We must have looked confused.

  'The finery, dears – I've never seen the two of you look so resplendent.'

  'We're starting to build today.'

  'Well, congratulations.' Delphine crumbled a sugar cube into her coffee, clapping her hands together and dusting the remains onto the floor for Fifi.

  'Why don't you come along, watch the ground being broken?'

  'Delighted.'

  'We're going down, rather than up; six metres of foundations.'

  'I'll need about the same for your tooth.' Sitting nearby our perma-tanned dentist had overheard our conversation and couldn't let the opportunity to remind me of the root canal I was putting off pass.

  'You said wait until the house was finished,' I stalled.

  'No pain?'

  'No.'

  'I guess we'll keep waiting.'

  I made a mental note to book myself in around the new year, just after we'd moved in. By then my tooth would be throbbing enough for me to justify contributing to the dentist's annual St Barts trip.

  The caffeine from the coffee kicked in and cleared my mind. We needed to be on site before ten so that I could take the confirmatory call from the bank and officially give Ange the go-ahead. Tanya and Delphine were busy catching up on village gossip; meanwhile, I mentally ticked off the bank's requirements – quotes for everything the mortgage covered, insurance certificates for all the builders, and life insurance for Tanya and myself. In all, I'd sent them one hundred pages, having checked and rechecked the bundle. Nothing was missing, so why was I getting increasingly worried?

  The sun illuminated another couple of tables, and a local vigneron pulled up a chair. His face was red and cracked from the early morning chill and the mud on his kneecaps and fresh scars on his hands attested to the hours of hard work.

  'Salut.' He waved.

  'Salut,' I called back.

  'How about repeating that wine tasting, only this time in the summer?'

  'Why?'

  'Nobody will have flu.'

  The English-French wine tasting had occurred during what was now remembered as one of the worst outbreaks of the virus ever. If anybody disputed the severity of the epidemic, the tasting was referred to as proof: 'Imagine it, people even preferred the English wine.' The joke never seemed to tire. People were so fond of the gag, it continued to introduce new customers.

  Across the road a couple entered the notaire's office. They kissed as they pushed through the door and the golden plaque denoting the lawyer's office glinted above their heads. Quite possibly they were about to buy a house. I hoped for their sake they weren't trying to build one. How naive we'd been that spring day as we made the purchase, with the suited government official soothing any nerves with jokes he must make on a daily basis: 'I have to warn you, Provence is an earthquake zone – it's not like LA but once a whole champ de lavande was destroyed… I know there's no house, but c'est la France, you still need a termite inspection.' Each gag was accompanied by an apologetic chortle. At least they'd broken up the monotony of the hour-long appointment during which each line of the contract was read out loud.

  I took the last sips of my coffee and fumbled in my pockets for some euros. Tanya clipped Elodie into the pushchair and we strode confidently up the road. We were off to build a house.

  Up at the chantier the full glory of the day revealed itself. The sky was, in the words of one local painter, 'almost absurdly blue'. At this time of year, he argued, it was too clear and brilliant to paint, obtaining a luminosity that defied the imagination and which would ruin all but the most impressionist of canvasses. To me, the lack of blemishes, the absence of a stray cloud, or the white plume of a distant jet, just the rich, luscious, unending blue was uplifting, but also somehow unexpectedly disturbing, leaving a nagging feeling that life could never be this perfect.

  As we got out of the car our feet dispersed the remains of a delicate dew. The mild winter meant that already the first trails of blossom floated by and the grass beneath our feet was lush and dotted with wild flowers. The land resonated with the smell of new growth, of shoots disturbing wet earth and buds breaking through bark. On the far side of the plot the engine of a JCB digger was whirring, churning out clouds of black smoke that drifted towards us like miniature thunderstorms. A few metres away a series of orange markings showed the footprint of the building.

  'Did someone murder a house?' joked Delphine as she lit a cigarette and took in the view. 'You guys are going to love it here. The space, the view and, from what Ange tells me of the build cost, not a bad investment.'

  'Let's hope so.'

  Ange clambered down from the distant digger, his trademark cap falling to the ground as he did so. Scooping it up, he hurried across the field towards us. I'd half feared that one of his frequent last-minute emergencies would have pulled him off to another chantier. But here he was, and if he was true to his word, our project was now his priority.

  'Salut, Ange.'

  'Salut, Delphine.'

  Ange kissed all the girls, and then almost as an afterthought included me. Our stubble grated uncomfortably together. His aftershave was so strong that just a little more friction would have lit a fire.

  'Do you have the cheque?' Ange was referring to the 5 per cent payment which we'd agreed should pass over when construction began. I tapped my jeans pocket. Without thinking my hand reached for the envelope. Instinct stopped me; better to wait for the bank's final confirmation. In France, once a cheque had been handed over it couldn't be cancelled.

  Together we stood staring at the view, our eyes tumbling with the fields towards the village. I bent down and picked some grass, tossing it into the air to check the wind and then watching as it dropped listlessly to the earth. Ange lit a cigarette and tapped his foot impatiently against the ground. Tanya wrapped her arm around my waist and gave me a hug. Only Elodie seemed happy rolling in the grass and pushing herself back up again.

  'Shall I take a photo?' offered Delphine.

  Tanya, Elodie and I hunched together, grinning obediently as we were snapped from all angles. From the twenty or so Delphine took one would surely make the coffee table of the new house. The faint chimes of the village clock rose from the valley below. In a land where time was elastic it was appropriate that the hour was always struck twice, five minutes apart. I wrapped my fingers around the phone in my pocket, waiting for the ring.


  'What's the plan?' I asked Ange.

  'See the squares?' he said, pointing to the markings on the ground. 'We'll dig down six metres until we hit solid soil and then lower in the steel and set the concrete. Should take a week, then we can start going up. You'll see, from there it will be quick.'

  Ange fell back into silence, once again tapping his feet on the ground. The churning engine of the digger made me want to forget the call from the bank and just get started. Thankfully, my phone rang before my will weakened. As expected it was the loans department.

  'Mr Ivey?' said a female voice.

  'Yes.'

  'The documents are all here, and I've been through them all thoroughly.' Her tone was not positive and the fear that I'd inadvertently omitted something resurfaced.