Ugly, Stinking Truffle Worth More Than Its Weight In Gold

Lord Byron kept a truffle on his desk for inspiration. Kings, princes and barons have spent their days trying to acquire this delicacy. And the famous Italian composer Rossini called it “the Mozart of fungi.”

The best place to find this precious food flavoring is in the small northwestern Italian town of Alba, the self-proclaimed world truffle capital, whose motto is: “Where fungi isn’t just the white stuff that grows on fraternity carpets over summer vacation!”

Unfortunately, I didn’t know the best truffles were found in Alba, which is why I went to France first. My initial plan was to go to Provence and rent a female pig. Sows are naturally drawn to truffles because they think - and this is true - that truffles smell exactly like the sexual hormones excreted by male pigs.

However, I heard a few people in Paris say that the best truffles, white truffles, were found in Italy with the help of dogs. (The canines have to be specially trained because they’re not normally fond of pig sex hormone excretions.)

Naturally, the people who said this were Italian. And dog lovers. But I had the information confirmed by a neutral source - a chef from Switzerland.

In Alba, I learned from the locals that there are three basic types of truffles. The crude black truffle smells approximately like the armpit of a professional linebacker’s T-shirt after it’s been fermenting in an unvented locker for three months. A notch up in quality is the more sophisticated French Perigord black truffle, which smells like the same shirt after it’s aged for two months.

Finally, at the apex of the truffle pyramid, is the elegant white truffle, which smells like the same shirt worn only a couple of times by a linebacker who may have - at some point in life - used deodorant.

The friendly ladies at the Alba tourist office managed to link me up with a Mr. Teresio, former president of the Alba Truffle-Hunting Association. They promised he would take me truffle hunting. However, there must have been a misunderstanding because he just drove me around his truffle farm (in a car with a windshield the size of a glove compartment).

A kind fellow in his 60s, Mr. Teresio was growing trees on his land specifically to cultivate truffles, which I learned grow underground as parasites on tree roots. They range in size from acorn to softball but, regardless of size, look just like brown brain tumors.

Other than that, I didn’t learn much during three hours with Mr. T because I can’t understand a word of Italian, even though he used hand gestures to help bridge the communication gap. I just nodded my head a lot and said “Si” every time Mr. Teresio looked over at me.

Whenever I tried to say something - usually in a mixture of Spanish and French - he’d interrupt me and say, “No capisco” (I don’t understand) and start yammering again.

The tour ended at Mr. T’s house, where I met his two daughters, who both spoke perfect English.

I asked one to tell her father I would like to actually look for truffles. She translated, and he explained it was much too early for the white truffle season (although I’d heard differently in Alba and had even seen some fresh white truffles for sale). He said the black truffle area was too far away.

However, for purposes of demonstration, he buried a black truffle the size of a tennis ball (that he just happened to have on hand) about 2 inches underground and released his truffle-hunting dogs.

The dogs, which acted as if they had been in captivity since the Renaissance, ran pretty much everywhere, except to where the truffle was.

Teresio tried to help them out by calling them to the spot. One dog obeyed … then lay down on top of the spot where the truffle was buried. (Even I could smell the truffle from that close!)

Teresio called his other dog to the same spot and pounded the ground. The dog looked quizzically at the ground and then began, in a manner of speaking, to fornicate with the terra firma above the buried truffle.

After 10 minutes, Mr. T. admitted these dogs were specifically trained to find white truffles, which have a different “perfume.”

I returned disheartened to the women at the tourist office, who directed me to another tourist office, where I was told it would be impossible to find someone to take me truffle-hunting because it was now too late in the day to locate a truffle hunter. Naturalmente!

Just then, a local truffle hunter named Mario Aprile walked in. I asked him (in French, our common language), or rather, begged him, to take me truffle-hunting.

Mario, a junior-high-school teacher by day, shrugged and brought me back to his house in a nearby village. There I met his wife and son and they gave me an entire floor of the house to use as my living quarters.

I couldn’t help but notice Mario’s truffle-hunting trophy collection, which was extremely impressive. I wasn’t aware that truffle-hunting was a major sport.

In fact, at first glance, I thought maybe I was in the home of a top-ranked professional bowler.

At 11 p.m., it was time to start looking for truffles. Most truffle hunting is done at night because no one likes to give away their secret spots.

Selling truffles is also a very confidential affair. This can be observed at the Saturday market in Alba. While I was there, the price for white truffles was around $1,000 a pound, but this price fluctuates weekly because truffles only stay “fresh” for about 10 days.

Anyway, the truffle hunters don’t want news to spread about big finds in their favorite areas, so they only display a few tiny truffles at the market, and keep all the big ones in their pockets.

For buyers interested in the better truffles, the transaction is moved to a more private location (much like a drug deal).

Mario lent me some stivali (rubber boots), a zappette (pick), and a lampadina tascabile (flashlight). We put his cane (dog) in the back of the macchina (car) and drove off to a nearby secret posto (spot) to find some tarfufi (pig-sex-hormone-flavored fungi).

Then we trudged through swampy undergrowth, which was not easy in the dark, until the dog, Biancha, picked up a scent. Biancha was supposed to dig up the truffle, then stop to get a reward from Mario.

However, Biancha had a craving for the truffles as well; at least she preferred them to the crackers Mario had brought along as rewards. So as soon as the dog started pawing at the ground, Mario would rush over to stop her from finding the truffle first.

In two hours, I found two ping-pong ball-sized truffles worth about $50 each. Mario said this was excellent luck. Sometimes he has looked for days without finding anything.

Truffles may stink, but when thinly - and I’m talking gold-leaf-thin - sliced on pasta in portions the size of parmesan cheese toppings, the sublime flavor makes the hunt well worth the effort.

It didn’t hurt that Mario’s wife was an amazing cook. She told me the only basic rule of thumb when cooking with truffles: Don’t mix truffles with other strong foods or spices (like garlic) that might mask the flavor.

I would add a second rule: Make friends with a professional truffle hunter so you can get some for free.

MEMO: This sidebar appeared with the story: IF YOU GO “Italy,” Lonely Planet Books, 1996. Cooking with truffles: http:/ /eat.com/cooking-glorrary/ tartufo.html Truffle Tourism: http:/ /www.cuneo.alpcom.it/italiano/ sonmario/turismo.html