The truffle (the mushroom, not the chocolate) is an ugly, pungent little lump of fungus that looks more like something animals would bury than a prize humans would seek out. It's the kind of unattractive food that makes you wonder what brave soul, hundreds of years ago, thought "Hey, maybe that's tasty. Only one way to find out!" I'm not sure who I'm more impressed by — that hungry forefather or whoever decided to shave a truffle thin and layer it under the skin of a perfectly good roast chicken.
Those two were onto something.
Today, truffles are up there with saffron and caviar among the world's most expensive culinary ingredients, commanding outrageous prices. Thanks to the depressed dollar, poor weather and stiff tariffs, prices for the most expensive varieties are approaching $4,000 a pound. That makes for a damn expensive roast chicken. But no matter what you pay, truffles are still unattractive. At first.
"It's not naturally something we think smells good," says Charles Lefevre, president of the North American Truffling Society. "But after you've been around them and eaten them, emotionally they are the most evocative food in the world." Last season, he stored a load of Italian white truffles, one of the most prized varieties, in the refrigerator at his Eugene, Oregon office. The scent still lingers.
The flavor of a truffle is unique, almost indescribable. Pick one up and your nose will register an intense earthiness reminiscent of damp organic compost, with an oily, nutty fecundity that is almost uncomfortably strong. But those dank flavors actually come across as refined, elegant and rich when paired with the right dish.
The king of truffles is the white variety found mainly in Italy, especially around Alba in the Piedmont. It's a wild species that must be hunted and gathered the old-fashioned way, either with dogs or pigs. Truffle spores are spread by the animals who eat and excrete them, so the fungus had to develop a distinctive and powerful scent as a lure. The spores even share a chemical compound with the odor emitted by male pigs when they're ready for some porcine hanky-panky. (Needless to say, female pigs are good at finding truffles.)
Even with varieties that can be farmed — like the Perigord truffle of France, found at the base of oak trees in huge groves — trained dogs are used. "Truffles only have culinary value when they're ripe, like fruit," explains Lefevre. Even when a truffle farmer knows where to look, he has the same trouble finding a ripe truffle as a color-blind person does picking ripe tomatoes. That's where the dogs come in.
U.S. truffle farmers don't use canines, says Lefevre, which is part of the reason American quality lags behind that of its European counterparts. Oregon has a thriving mushroom industry, which made the state a natural starting point to pioneer truffle farming. But Oregon truffles do not get a lot of respect in the culinary community. "They're more about the texture than the aroma," says Chef Mac deCarle of Cork and The Bottle Shop on St. Armands Circle in Sarasota. "The pungency just isn't there."
The problem, according to Lefevre, is that most Oregon farmers treat the truffles the same as their other crops, harvesting the fungus by rake, which pulls up the ripe alongside the unripe. "That's why Oregon truffles have a reputation for being weak," he says.
American farmers aren't the only ones hoping to challenge the Europeans: Truffles are now being produced in Australia, New Zealand, Asia and Africa. "I like the Chinese black [approximately $20 an ounce] more than the Oregon," says Marty Blitz, chef at Tampa's Mise En Place. "They've gotten better, and they're a good product for our cost point." Blitz shaves them onto salads and veal, and infuses honeycomb with fresh truffle for use on the Mise cheese plate. DeCarle shaves the more expensive Burgundy truffles (approximately $60 an ounce), currently at the end of their fall season, onto risotto and his high-end bone-in filet Rossini. Both Blitz and deCarle refrigerate their truffles in glass dishes half filled with rice. The rice extends the short lifespan of the truffle anywhere from seven to 14 days, depending on the variety and freshness.
Get past the cost, if you can, and fresh truffles become a great equalizer for home cooks. They're more garnish than ingredient, with best expression found in the simplest preparations: shaved atop fresh pasta tossed with butter and Parmigiano Reggiano or on lightly scrambled eggs with butter and cream. The only trick is to make the slices as thin as possible.
Can't get past the cost? One trick, ubiquitous on fine-dining menus for years, is truffle oil; as far back as 1995, Ruth Reichl referred to it as "irritatingly overused." Many brands are infused with an artificial chemical compound that mimics truffle aroma, and even those that aren't have trouble approximating the real deal. Still, chefs around the Bay area sprinkle it into mashed potatoes and across grilled asparagus with abandon. For the home cook, a few drops can add surprisingly intense flavor for a tiny percentage of the cost of fresh truffles.
Retail, the fresh version is much harder to come by. No one in the Bay area carries truffles in stock, and few order them for customers. In Sarasota, you can order winter black Perigord and white Alba truffles — both just coming into season — from the Sarasota Olive Oil Company for $600 and $2,900 a pound, respectively. Don't worry, you don't have to order a whole pound. There are also plenty of mail-order options.
Buy, shave and enjoy truffles yourself, or seek out restaurateurs who work with the precious nuggets of dirty culinary gold. Just ask Charles Lefevre: One experience with the glorious reek will leave you with memories for a lifetime.
This article appears in Nov 21-27, 2007.