Truffles are often sought at night, especially in Italy. It is usually explained that this is because the odor of truffles is stronger then, but it may be suspected that there is another reason: to make it difficult for spies to spot the exact location where a truffle has been found. Another tuber may be expected to form in the same location, and if someone else knows where that is, the landowner may arrive to gather his next truffle only to find that someone has been there before him. Night truffle digging is done with the aid of a small flashlight, which does not illuminate a sufficient area to help a truffle thief to find the right place. Poachers are one of the banes of the truffle-land owner; during the season, about November through February, Sunday promenaders, especially if they are accompanied by dogs, are regarded with suspicion.
As is usually the case with expensive foods, fraud is rampant in the truffle market. At the level of the first sale, by the truffle digger to the wholesaler, tunnels bored into truffles by insects are frequently filled skillfully with clay or even with lead, the latter less commonly, for much of this metal would make the truffle too heavy and the buyer suspicious. For foreign markets, where there is little familiarity with this tuber, gray truffles are often dyed black to make them look like the prized Périgord variety. The limit has been reached in Holland and the United States, where traders offer what they refer to disarmingly as “fantasy truffles”—black balls of blood, starch and egg yolk treated with synthetic truffle flavoring. When truffles enter into other foods—such as foie gras—they may be replaced by the mushrooms which the French have named “death trumpets,” possibly to discourage others from finding out how good they are. This is not a very serious fraud, for you do get a substitute of excellent flavor, but you pay truffle prices for it.
Truffles are often credited with aphrodisiac virtues, and though one is tempted to ask what isn’t, the report in this case is more insistent than in most others. True or not, Mme. de Pompadour believed it, and stuffed herself with truffles, among other things, to maintain an ardor which was not natural to her, for the benefit of the king. No less an authority than Brillat-Savarin (but he was only relaying what others had said) wrote that eating truffles “permitted the stuttering and underpowered Emperor Claudius not to lose face before his young and impetuous wife, Messalina”; but if Juvenal was right, Messalina had slight need of Claudius, being bountifully busied elsewhere, and when she herself fed him mushrooms, it was not truffles, to invigorate him, but a type of fungus selected to do quite the opposite. I have read in a magazine article that it was to truffles “that Henry IV owed his prowess in the bedroom,” but most accounts agree that the gallant French monarch required no other stimulant than the presence of an attractive woman. We are told also that one of Napoleon’s generals advised him to eat truffles to increase his potency, but not whether Napoleon took his advice, and I have read also, authority unstated, that Louis XIV ate a pound of them a day. No doubt he did: he was a glutton.
Brillat-Savarin devoted exhaustive research to this question, and while he remarked that truffles provoked dreaming, like many mildly exciting foods, he concluded cautiously that “the truffle is not at all a positive aphrodisiac; but it can, on certain occasions, make women more tender and men more amiable.”
Truffles might very well act as a general stimulant to the system, for they contain a not inconsiderable dosage of invigorating mineral salts—iron, for instance. Balzac testified to the help this food gave him in his work of creation. “If one truffle falls on my plate,” he wrote, “that will suffice: it is the egg which immediately hatches ten characters for my Comédie Humaine.”
The worst gastronomic use ever made of the truffle was probably that committed by Delmonico’s, the famous New York restaurant, which, attempting to outdo itself for a gala dinner, created ice cream (flavor unspecified) with truffles—“strange to say, very good,” said Ward McAllister, who was strange too.
—from Food, 1980
GIACOMO CASTELVETRO ON TRUFFLES
Botanists tell us that this noble fruit is a kind of mushroom, which grows hidden underground and never sees the light of day. Some people go hunting truffles out of gluttony, and some are greedy for money, and they have two ways of searching for them. When the ground is covered in snow, there sometimes appears on the surface a tiny, bright yellow plant which peasants know conceals truffles, hidden about five or six inches underground.
Our poet Petrarch, comparing the eyes of his beloved to the rays of the sun, said in his nineteenth sonnet, which begins ‘Quando il pianeta che …’:
Nor that glow which lights up
Hills and dales with little flowers,
But cannot penetrate the earth,
Which, pregnant by itself alone,
Produces this fruit so rare …
‘This fruit so rare’ has been interpreted as a dish of truffles the poet was intending to send to a friend.
The other way of finding truffles is by means of that dirty animal, the pig, who loves them more than anything else, and whose acute sense of smell leads it to where they are hidden. The aroma of truffles is rather like that of mushrooms, but much stronger, so the pig can find them however deep the snow is. It digs with its snout into the earth under the snow, and would devour the truffles straight away, but for the wily peasant, who keeps a sharp eye on the pig and when it finds some, drives it away with his spade and grabs the truffles for himself.
The biggest truffles are about the size of an egg; but some are as big as a quince. Truffles are not as spongy as mushrooms. There are two kinds; one has black flesh, like charcoal, and the other is pale. Both of them have a rough, black skin. The black truffles are the best and the most expensive. They sell for more than half a golden scudo the pound. They are mainly found around Rome. The pale ones cost less, and large quantities are to be had in Lombardy.
Truffles should be wrapped in damp paper and cooked in the ashes for about a quarter of an hour. Then peel them just as you would a baked apple or pear, cut them up very small, and finish cooking them in a pan with oil, salt and pepper. When they are nice and hot the truffles are ready to eat, and they are good to eat as they are, with just some lemon or bitter orange juice.
Truffles will keep for a whole year. This is how it is done: after roasting them in the ashes, peel your truffles and cut them into small pieces. Put them in a little pot of olive oil, so that all the pieces are completely covered, and then close it tightly. Store the pot in a dry place. When you need some, take out as many as you want, and heat them in a pan with fresh oil, salt and pepper. Don’t forget to serve them with a squeeze of lemon or bitter orange juice—they need nothing else.
With truffles I come to the end of my description of the fruit, herbs, and vegetables of Italy. It would be appropriate for me to finish with an amusing little incident concerning truffles that occurred during my first journey away from home.
In the year of our Lord 1572 I found myself in Germany, studying the somewhat cumbersome language of that noble nation. I was living in the village of Rotteln in Baden Baden, about three miles outside the beautiful city of Basle, which was so full of students from Italy, France and Spain that I had been unable to find lodgings there.
One day I was invited to dine with the lord of that village and the surrounding countryside. The company consisted of a group of gentlemen, one of whom, a charming young baron, had just returned from a visit to Italy. When he heard where I was from, he said, Can you tell me, my friend, since you are Italian, why it is that the noblemen of the most civilized nation in the world perambulate their estates in the company of pigs?’
I assumed that he must have seen someone out hunting truffles, in the way I have just described, and could not help laughing at his bewilderment. He took this in bad part, as if I had been calling him a liar or making fun of him. ‘Well,’ he said crossly, ‘is it true, or isn’t it?’ So to placate him I quickly replied, ‘You are absolutely right, you may well have seen quite a few of these gentlemen walking along behind
a pig, tied to one of its back legs with a piece of string. But you must also have noticed that the gentleman was followed by a peasant with a spade or shovel over his shoulder.’ ‘Well, yes, that’s true,’ he said, ‘but there they all were, out walking with pigs.’
‘What you saw,’ I went on, ‘was not an Italian nobleman leading his pig to pasture, but a gentleman following his pig on a treasure hunt. And great fun it is, too. The pig has a keen sense of smell, without which it would never be able to find the treasure, which is hidden deep in the ground under the snow. If you had waited long enough you would have seen the animal rootling in the ground with its snout, and the gentleman pulling the pig back, while the peasant dug away with his spade.’
The young nobleman replied, ‘Now that I understand what was going on, I am no longer scandalized by such behaviour, and am very much obliged to you. But I still cannot imagine what on earth it was that they could have been searching for. If you do not mind, I should be vastly obliged to you for an explanation.’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘the treasure is not a lump of earth, as some people think, but a sort of mushroom that grows in the ground and never shows above it, called tartufo.’
When he heard its name, so like the German der Teufel (which means ‘devil’), he said, ‘Good heavens, how can you bear to eat that sort of monster!’ At which I could not prevent myself from laughing out loud, and said, ‘I wish to God we had some of these little devils here today, for I am sure that you and all the present company would enjoy them enormously.’
‘Well, I must confess,’ he said, ‘I can well believe that, for I remember how I used to refuse to eat frogs and snails, when I was in your country. I thought they were quite repellent, and now I enjoy them so much I eat them the way other people do chickens or partridges.’
He then went on to talk of other things, and our conversation came to an end. Later he very courteously invited me to visit him. I was entertained on several occasions in his beautiful castle, delightfully situated on a nearby hilltop. There he would offer me exquisitely prepared frogs, and we would both laugh heartily at our little misunderstanding.
—from The Fruit, Herbs & Vegetables of Italy, 1614,
translated from the Italian by Gillian Riley
KARL FRIEDRICH VON RUMOHR ON EDIBLE FUNGI
The truffle is by far the best of the edible fungi. No-one will dispute that it is the jewel in the crown of any lavishly dressed table. Not all truffles are equally fragrant and tasty, however. The best come from the Périgord area and the Etsch valley, near Trento. The truffle should also be fully mature, without being overripe. Truffles which are beginning to decompose should be thrown away, even if they do retain a certain amount of goodness.
Any attached soil is normally removed from truffles by immersing them in simmering wine. Some like to peel them but their rather woody skin actually has the best flavour.
Truffles can be simmered in a mixture of wine and meat stock with whole peppercorns. They are then drained thoroughly, spread out on a cloth and served with fresh butter as a starter.
An Italian method is to heat slivers of truffles on a plate with oil, salt and pepper. Lemon juice is squeezed over them before serving or they may be sprinkled with parmesan cheese. The mixture can be served on slices of toast.
The entire civilised world is familiar with the truffle’s power to flavour sauces, pies and stuffings. Once people realised what an effect foods can have upon human emotions, they started to make extensive use of delectable meals on ambassadorial missions. The channels of diplomacy have thus become a fine means of disseminating knowledge of special and rare flavours. Any ambassador who represents his master in words only is hardly regarded as doing his job properly. Regrettably this has led to an increase in the price of this ambiguous natural product at its very source, with the result that the pleasure of the quiet truffle gourmets is somewhat curtailed.
I have encountered one small variety of woody fungus, the prunjoli, only in Italy. This fungus is the equal of the truffle in terms of aroma and strength of flavour but is much less substantial. It may be added to all sorts of chopped mixtures and may, for example, be served on toast, combined with some sort of animal product.
Cultivated fungi, or mushrooms [champignons], are grown in special beds or can be found wild in horse pastures. Of all the fungi found in Germany, mushrooms have the most tender flesh and the best flavour. The English make a very spicy ketchup from old mushrooms and this has been confused with the Indian soya in our German cookery books.
There are many varieties of edible fungi. It is, however, easy to make a mistake and pick a similar, poisonous variety instead of an edible specimen. This explains why many people who value their lives refrain from consuming any sort of fungus at all.
There are some excellent books on the subject of fungi in general and in detail, and householders and cooks should be able to learn from these. Nature delights, however, in cloaking deadly poison and magical flavour in identical garb. There are various suggestions for testing whether fungi are poisonous. These include using onions and dipping in silver spoons. Some believe that they can tell from the smell of a fungus whether it is edible.
Ernest Bloch, The Mushroom Lady, 1912
—from The Essence of Cookery, 1822,
translated from the German by Barbara Yeomans
LUDWIG BEMELMANS ON PIGS AND TRUFFLES
The next day the voyage began in earnest and, as it should be, the car was newly washed and in order. Denise was properly dressed, the baggage was in its right place, and I had the route in my head. I set the clock on “temps de marche”—an early start is best; it was eight-seventeen. The run would be to Brive la Gaillarde. Normally, in a car like this, I made Cannes in two easy stages, and it could be done in one day, but now I went slowly to look at France. The fields were fresh in the green of spring, it was all orderly, the birds were singing, and nature was celebrating with red, yellow and blue and white flowers and pink blossoms. The day passed and we stopped at the Hôtel de la Truffe Noire in time for dinner.
The hotel itself is nothing extra, but still it is worth a visit. In the kitchen is a chef of the first order, and his specialty is truffles. By way of decoration there is a truffle on all the china.
We arrived there about eight, and I ordered Truffes sous la cendre—a manner of cooking them in a jacket of dough under ashes, and when Denise ate them, she looked as if she were eating the ashes. She held a truffle on her fork and she asked, “Vous aimez ça?”
I said, “Yes, I like it very much, don’t you?”
“Oh, these truffles, je ne les aime pas trop,” she said, making a face. “They taste blah blah—I don’t know how to say it.”
“They are a great delicacy.”
“Where do they grow?”
“In the ground, and they are very hard to find. Pigs, special truffle pigs, are used to find them.”
“Ah.” She said “Ah” the way other people say “Oh” when something unpleasant is told them.
“You don’t have to eat them.”
“Ah, but if they are so expensive …”
“Give them to me and I will order you a saucisson chaud.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
The next morning we took a walk around the town and Denise said, “Last night in my room, I thought about the pigs.”
“What pigs?”
“The pigs with the truffles. How do they know that they are truffles?”
I had no answer to that, and then she asked how it was that people liked them when they tasted so “blah.”
I said that it was an acquired taste.
“What is an acquired taste? To eat things that you don’t like?”
“Yes, the first cup of coffee tastes awful, the first oyster is hard to swallow, the first snail, the first dish of tripe, kidney, brains, and also other things. The first cigarette and pipe.…”
“But the pigs like the truffles?”
“Yes, they are found mostly in so
ggy earth. A man on stilts follows the pig, and when the pig has uprooted the truffle, then the man, who has a pole with a nail at the end of it, sticks the pig and the pig cries ‘Ouch’ and drops the truffle. Every tenth truffle the pig is allowed to keep.”
“Poor pig! Are all things that are costly gotten with pain?”
“Yes, most. Diamonds are mined deep underground, pearls are obtained with danger, animals are trapped for fur, and the money to buy things is sometimes as hard to get as the things it buys.”
“It is terrible for God to lend you life and then take it away, and make the time between hard for people.”
“But just now we are happy.”
“We are very happy.” Then we rolled on.
—from La Bonne Table, 1964
PELLEGRINO ARTUSI ON TRUFFLED POTATOES
Thinly slice blanched, peeled potatoes and lay them in a frying pan, interspersed with thinly sliced truffles and grated Parmigiano. Add a few chunks of butter, salt, and pepper, and when the potatoes start to crackle, dampen them with broth or meat sauce and simmer them until done. Before removing the potatoes from the fire, sprinkle them with lemon juice; serve them hot.
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