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The truffle is not a positive aphrodisiac; but it can, upon occasion, make women tenderer and men more apt to love.
- Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
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"You're driving to Chattanooga for dinner?" Our friends looked at us dubiously, waiting for the punch line. Chattanooga is where you buy "Rock City" birdhouses or a tie-dyed diaper bag. But you don't drive two hours, each way, through the mountains, passing a half dozen runaway truck ramps, and endless "See Ruby Falls" billboards just to eat dinner. Knowing the meal that awaited us, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable proposition. My partner, Barry, and I shut the car doors and began our trek. Chef/owner Daniel Lindley, alum of Gramercy Tavern, now at the helm of St. John's Restaurant , would be conjuring the culinary gods during our 100-mile commute.
When we arrived, I checked the menu to make sure it was still listed: Tuscan Pecorino with house-made truffle honey, heady and reeking darkly from the abundant black shavings. I hastily ordered and was soon presented with a small plate of bread, cheese and honey, all appearing deceptively humble. Shunning the bread, I picked up the cheese and dipped it. A golden thread trailed back into the ramekin. The imperious perfume of the fungus was intoxicating. I twirled the piece, neatly wrapping the glistening drip, and laid it on my tongue. My eyes rolled back in my head as the trio of flavors traveled through me. Involuntarily, I grabbed Barry's leg. Hard. The three tenors were bellowing the final uproarious strains of "Nessun Dorma" in my hindbrain. I was coming unglued. I grabbed Barry's leg again. Harder. He gave me his most menacing "cease and desist" look, but I was in hedonistic bliss, impervious to the rules of decorum. I let forth a husky "Oh. My. Gawd!" Fellow diners stared. I put my hands on the table to dispel the obvious suspicions. Over and over, I repeated my stunned mantra. I didn't know what else to say, but silence was impossible. The flavors bloomed full and rich. The sharp, milky force of the Pecorino and the musky, meaty punch of black truffle were lofted on an amber wave of sweetness. They danced. They cajoled. They told a cheeky story of foolish demigods, bringing me to simultaneous laughter and tears. It was almost too much ecstasy to endure in a single taste. I sat there trying to recover before my next bite. In disbelief, I lifted another alabaster morsel from the plate. Expectantly, I sampled again. Once more, I was laid emotionally prostrate by the shameless, animal howl of this mysterious fungus. In my soul, I was bowing and worshipping with one thought in my head, "The power of the truffle is absolute."
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The remarkable truffle—not to be confused with the chocolate truffles—inspires more passion and mystique than anything in the food world. Legendary in French cuisine, Tuber melanosporum, the "Black Diamond of Périgord", is, undoubtedly, the most well known of the species. Black truffles are harvested in France during the fall and winter months. White Truffles, a/k/a Alba Truffles (Tuber magnatum) are found in Northern Italy, around October and November. Périgord and Alba truffles are, easily, the most prized of the genus. Other species, less expensive and milder in taste, grow wild or are cultivated around the globe—from China to Australia to the U.S. and points in between. In the United States, truffles are cultivated in North Carolina, Tennessee and, most notably, Oregon. Domestic truffles are meeting mixed reviews, but my few encounters with them have been euphoric. More experienced palates would certainly disagree. My apologies to domestic cultivators; but, for me, it's like pizza: When you're 500 miles from the nearest Giordano's, anything with a crust, tomato sauce and cheese will do in a pinch. Truffles are still considered a rare delicacy, but I'm encouraged by the growing accessibility. My hat is off to anyone who introduces the king of all cuisine to a wider audience.
Truffles most commonly grow among the roots of certain trees. In Europe (especially France), the host tree is oak. Female pigs and dogs are most often used in finding this elusive treasure. The hogs don't need training because truffles contain androsterone, a pheromone produced by male pigs. The female's motivation for finding truffles is sure. But when they unearth one, they eat it, so there's always a struggle for possession. And pigs are smart, stubborn, heavy opponents. For this reason, many prefer trained dogs—though, unless you know how to train one yourself, they're expensive, fetching prices in excess of $20,000.
I prefer the idea of using a 20k canine. The entire scenario with the female hog is heartbreaking. Imagine yourself as a truffle hog. You're in the forest with your best human friend, Giscard, when you detect the alluring aroma of sweet porcine love just ahead of you. You sniff the ground, take a few halting steps, and sniff again. Your heart starts racing, your brow glistens with sweat, and you start digging, not questioning the unlikely location of a potential mate underground. You're focused on one goal. "A little more digging, and carnal bliss is mine." Your nose hits a disappointing, black lump. Optimistically you think, "Well, it's not the love of my life, but it smells good. At least I have something to eat." Just as you're about to salvage the last shred of happiness from your failed tryst, Giscard pokes you with a heavy stick. Out from under your nose, he snatches the truffle and replaces it with an acorn. You chew the bland, gritty substitute and then...you smell your randy paramour again, now farther away. Undaunted by your present defeat, you set your chin and walk intently toward passion. This disillusionment is played repeatedly until the harvest is over. By any standard, being a truffle hog is a profoundly depressing occupation, with disturbing similarities to nightclubs just before closing time.
But for the dedicated trufficulteur, it can be a lucrative career, despite some significant pitfalls. You're at the mercy of the weather and the season. And like the most brazen, implausible spy novel, the truffle business is cloaked in rumors of intrigue, ardor and deception. In Provence, some vendors are known only by their alias, their "nom de truffe". Inferior truffles are disguised and weights are inflated. Money is exchanged under the table. Secrecy is the norm. And while commercial truffle cultivation has quickly become commonplace, it still has a less than scrupulous reputation. Should you find yourself in Provence on a truffle buying excursion, know that caution is recommended.
If you're among the wealthy or the truffle-obsessed, online purchasing is probably your best option. In the fall and winter months, one can usually find fresh truffles online at Dean and DeLuca, Gourmet Foodstore, D'Artagnan or from any of the growing number of upscale eGrocers. Prices can fluctuate wildly; but, last year, fresh Périgord truffles averaged somewhere between $400 and $800 per pound. Some Alba truffles sold for more than $2600 per pound. Last December, the culinary world was agog with the discovery of an unusually large 3.3 pound Alba truffle. A casino mogul bought it at auction for $330,000. I can only hope that my desire never reaches such obscene heights; however, any way you shave it, fresh truffles aren't an indulgence affordable to the masses.
That's why I often opt for experiencing the costly tuber at a restaurant or in some other commercially-packaged food; you don't need a Swiss bank account to enjoy this reclusive jewel. The flavor and magic of truffles are widely available in a variety of worthy products. Some are still quite pricey, but they're definitely worth the occasional extravagance. There's no substitute for a fresh, whisper thin shaving of black truffle; nevertheless, the true character still comes through beautifully in cheeses, pâtés, oils, and butters.
Be warned: the stink of the truffle is not for the timid. It's putrid. Some have described the odor as earthy, sharp, or pungent. They're being kind. I think it smells like a steaming urine cloud generated by peeing on a flaming pile of black, rubber tires. Unbelievably, it's my favorite food odor. And I fully understand why many believe truffles are an aphrodisiac. As a gay man of considerable size, I'm more than a little disturbed by how similar I am to the female truffle hog. I was at a friend's restaurant when I first became aware of the similarity. We were awaiting the soup course. I started twitching as the server approached. I smelled truffles. My nostrils were flaring. He set the bowl before me and, on the surface of a sublime artichoke soup, there rested several big, shiny drops of truffle oil. I was, at first, congratulating myself on my olfactory acumen. Then, I thought of the lovesick truffle hog. The comparison was humbling.
The forceful flavor has been compared to other mushrooms or blue cheese. Some liken it to roasted nuts or cured meats, but it truly defies description. You'd have greater success describing the flavor of oxygen. It is intense and meaty and robust. But that could just as easily describe Hulk Hogan. Truffles must be experienced, and thankfully this no longer requires a great outlay of money.
The best and least expensive place to start experimenting is with truffle oil. Despite the name, most of these oils are manufactured with the chemical flavoring "2,4-dithiapentane". Here, I retract all of my opinions about additives. It's a perfectly acceptable substitute. I've sampled what's purported to be the "real thing" and the fabricated alternative. The differences are negligible to all but the most experienced palates. White and black truffle oils are both excellent. And, generally, price is commensurate with quality. By all means, seek out the best, genuine article if possible. These oils range from $35 to over $100. But I have yet to reject even the cheapest versions. You can expect to pay $20 for a decent, mid-range, bottle of oil. It's superb drizzled over dark meats. Try it in finishing pasta sauces and cream sauces. Pour a thin stream over a perfectly cooked omelet. Arguably, the egg is the soul mate of the truffle. Creamy soups finished with a few generous drops of the liquid gold become masterpieces. If you've become jaded toward the ubiquitous Portobello mushroom, sprinkle it with truffle oil after grilling. The old becomes new again. And I personally believe that it should be illegal to serve mushroom risotto without truffle oil. Some oils have a stronger truffle essence, so use your nose and tongue as a guide. And don't add it until just before serving; too much heat may make the infused oil bitter. Generally, dark, rich flavors are the best candidates for pairing with the rich notes of the fragrant fungus. Truffle oils are extremely versatile and a great value. The return on this small investment is enormous.
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