La Truffe

"Madame, vous aimez les truffes?" This query, uttered sotto voce just behind my right ear, startled me out of my truffle reverie. I was intently examining a display of various preserved truffles and truffle-infused delicacies, wondering which to choose for holiday gifts for family members across the Atlantic, in the (mostly) truffle-barren U.S.

"Je les adore!" I responded, turning to face my interluctor, a slender and attractive young man, dressed in solid Parisian black. I figured he had interpreted my extended scrutiny of the truffle display as evidence of a quandary of indecision which he was about to help me resolve with some skillful French salesmanship. I was in an épicerie fine, my favorite category of French store. While I can bypass the most seductive Parisian clothing stores with scarcely a lingering glance, I cannot resist exploring these specialty food shops. The best épiceries have a wonderful inventory of delicacies and ingredients for passionate cooks and just plain old gourmands (people who love to eat), including fine olive oils, exotic vinegars, candied fruits and flowers, unusual liqueurs and wines, mustards, foie gras, and of course, truffles.

La truffe is always pronounced in France with deference and downright reverence, as if it has a capital T. The truffle I'm talking about is none other than Tuber melanosporum, the black, knobby, mysterious and secretive underground mushroom whose complex perfume and flavor is practically impossible to describe to the uninitiate. It's dark, pungent, and earthy, with a basenote that is a strange admixture of deep fungal odors with an intensity that is reminiscent almost of garlic. The first time you smell a fresh truffle, it defies your nose and you may not be sure that you like it. It is an aroma so primal as to be almost sexual--not that far off, now that I think of it, from the odor of many of the best French cheeses. A truffle doesn't smell like a cheese; it just has a very biologic aroma that might best be characterized as downright naughty--in short, everything to drive your average Frenchman--or woman--wild.

"Because I have some excellent fresh truffles, at a price that is most interesting," the young man now added in a fierce whisper, his eyes glittering as blackly as the pricey tubers in the jars before my eyes. I looked over my shoulder, starting to feel as if I were becoming involved in a clandestine drug deal. "I have a friend with a truffière (truffle orchard)," he continued, "and he just sent me a magnificent shipment. He's a supplier to La Maison de la Truffe, and they sell his truffles for twice my price. Plus, they say they're from the Périgord, when in fact, they come from Poitou-Charentes. Not that that makes them any less good!" He smiled disarmingly.

"Well," I hesitated, "I was actually looking for truffles to send as gifts to the U.S. Are these good?" I asked, pointing to one of the pricier jars. When he assured me they were excellent, I grabbed two and followed him to the cash register. But olfactory neurons in my brain were firing in response to his proposition. I was imagining that deep, dark, pungent aroma that only a fresh truffle has. Denis' kids were coming to dinner that night, it was close to the holidays, and having a truffle menu would be a good chapter in my ongoing campaign to develop their sense of taste in gastronomy. I hesitated. "So, those fresh truffles...could I see them?"

"Certainly, Madame," he assured me, and glided off into a back room, returning with a big ziploc bag. In it, individually wrapped in barely moist tissue and cellophane, were the precious black treasures. As he unzipped the bag, a cloud of rich dark aroma bombarded my nose, making me as attentive as a dog scenting a delectably ripened roadkill. When you're shopping for a fresh truffle, you imperatively must choose with your nose. If the truffle isn't pungently aromatic, it is not very fresh and has already dissipated most of its perfume and therefore its flavor.

He delicately unwrapped a monstrous specimen fully five inches in diameter, as gnarled and bumpy as an enormous black toad. I shook my head, knowing that particular truffle was beyond my budget, especially since my truffle pusher had let me know that this would be strictly a cash deal. He unveiled a more modest--but nonetheless handsome--specimen about two inches in diameter. Fresh truffles are priced by 100 grams. This one weighed in at around 70 euros. I nodded.

My truffle man beamed, then carefully swaddled my black diamond back into its protective wrappings. Naughty black tuber and cash exchanged hands. I slipped the goods into my handbag, not wanting to take any chances on losing such a precious item. The jarred truffles were rung up in the usual way, along with a smattering of other delicous items--enough to make a couple of wonderful holiday boxes.

"Should you be planning a dinner pour des convives (how I love that untranslatable expression, meaning 'convivials' or friends) between now and February for which you wish to serve des Truffes," offered my complicitous partner in gastronomic indulgence and budgetary sin, "just let me know." He slipped me a card with his cell phone number. "I can have them here by Chronoposte in 24 hours."

I thanked him, pocketing his card in my wallet for future indulgence. He handed me my heavy shopping bags with the care and solicitousness of every topnotch French salesperson, looking into my eyes and thanking me as he did so. I smiled back and sauntered out to his au revoir for the walk home. In my mind, I was imagining small, stylish blue-and-yellow official Chronoposte boxes bing rushed through the express mail system, looking innocuous enough, but with telltale clouds of truffle aroma belying their contents. In my imagination I saw a map of national truffle traffic, with trails of truffle odor like cartoon clouds crisscrossing the country. I imagined postal workers smiling knowingly as they breathed in that naughty perfume which sets any Frenchman's mouth to watering.

Then I smiled to myself, smug with the knowledge that not only was I going to be eating truffle tonight, but I had just sewed up a deal that had all the elements that are irresistable to a French person. First and most obviously, I'd gotten an excellent price--always of primary interest in my adopted country. But adding to my relish was the knowledge that I'd established a contact that could only be had by la puce à l'oreille--"the flea in the ear." This was strictly confidentiel--the sort of well-kept secret so loved by the French. I had scored my very own personal Truffle Connection!

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