Glass Half Full

by Caro Feely

  'Do you know truffles are an aphrodisiac?' I said, bouncing up and down to see how it felt.

  'But you're on the cheapest menu that doesn't include truffles,' said Seán. 'Bad luck for you.'

  We laughed. We had agreed that Seán would go for the middle menu that had some truffles but I was going to stick to the original low-cost booking to keep our spending within reason.

  I jumped up and looked into the bathroom.

  'A bath! Total luxe!' I said. At home one tiny shower room sufficed for four of us. When the Wine Cottage was empty in winter I sometimes stole across to enjoy the luxury of a bath, but since that part of the house wasn't heated unless there were guests, it was a pleasure tinged with pain.

  'I'll get the boots,' said Seán.

  I looked out of the window; vegetable gardens terraced down to a dam, with fields and forests beyond. It was beautiful and organised. Seán returned, boots in hand, not a shopping bag in sight.

  'Thanks,' I said, taking my old leather hiking boots. I pulled them on and did up the laces. 'We'd better get over there – I don't want to miss the truffling.'

  'Hang on, let me finish reading this article about the place,' said Seán, sitting on the sofa with a file of press clippings in front of him.

  'No, we need to go! You can read that later,' I said, grabbing Seán's coat and pulling him like an excited kid.

  'OK, OK!' Seán said and followed. 'Don't forget to tell them I want the middle menu that includes truffles.'

  Despite having lived in France for many years, Seán still felt self-conscious talking French to people we didn't know. With friends he was at ease in the knowledge that they would accept his grammatical and pronunciation errors. In his lonely job in the vineyard he didn't get to practise as much as I did and he had started with less French than I had, having taken French at school.

  In reception the sound of voices led us to the next room. It looked like a Louis Vuitton winter advert: blazing log fire, long dining table and six people outfitted in luxurious leather, fur and fine fabric, sipping from delicate cups.

  Inés introduced us to the three couples, Parisians retired to a quieter life in La Rochelle. I got two names but even those I wasn't sure about. When we arrived in France I had had to replay a voicemail message eleven times to take down the name and number. Since then I had improved but traditional French names said quickly were still difficult to compute and more difficult to store. It was even more complex when people introduced themselves with surname then first name, as they were obliged to do at school.

  Guillaume, Inés's husband, farmer and master chef, came through the kitchen door as she finished the introductions. We shook hands.

  'Enchanté,' he said. 'Can I interest you in a coffee or something stronger before you go truffling? We have a local prune liqueur that these gentlemen are enjoying.'

  'A coffee sounds magic,' I said.

  'Liqueur please,' said Seán.

  'A good choice,' said a portly fellow dressed like a tsar.

  Guillaume reappeared with a small silver tray holding a tiny china cup and a tot glass.

  'Is it possible to have a touch of milk?' I said.

  'Of course,' Inés said and returned with a minute jug of cream.

  In France there was seldom a nuage de lait, a cloud of milk for coffee or tea. I poured and a rich yellow web spread through the dark brew. The powerful aroma drew me in; the coffee was luscious.

  Guillaume moved to check a pot hanging over the fire. He adjusted a metal structure and, seeing me approach, explained.

  'I can hang multiple pots and adjust their height according to the heat required. We can also roast a whole carcass or portions of meat.' He pointed to a spit and a small metal cage, like a barbecue grill but round. I felt like I had stepped back a few hundred years.

  'Speaking of cooking, have you decided which menu you wish to book for tonight?' he said. 'While you are out I will start my preparations.'

  'Thanks for reminding me,' I said. 'I had booked for the short menu for both of us but Seán would like the middle menu.'

  'Unfortunately we can't offer different things for everyone as we are a very small team. You both need to book for the same menu,' said Guillaume. 'The short menu doesn't include truffles, and it seems a pity not to have truffle when you are here for the truffle weekend.'

  Like any good Libra I deliberated for a moment, weighing the scales this way and that despite it being obvious which choice I had to make – we only had our fifteenth anniversary once in our lives.

  'OK, we'll go for the middle menu,' I said and glanced at Seán.

  He was following the banter, oblivious to the fact that I would be having an aphrodisiac dinner too. The group – including Seán – was settling in, the effects of prune liqueur and the warmth of the fire manifesting magnificently. It looked like it would be difficult to get them to move.

  'Alors, are you going truffling or not?' said Guillaume, sensing the same thing.

  'Bien sûr!' said the portly man's wife. 'Let's go!'

  Wrapped in coats, scarves, hats and gloves, we descended the terrace steps. The temperature had dropped another degree or two.

  'Wait here a minute while I get the dogs,' said Inés.

  She went up to an outbuilding some 20 paces above the main house and opened the gate. A large black short-haired cross and a young blonde Labrador ran out in glee.

  'It's cold but it's going to get colder,' said Inés as she rejoined us. 'Snow is forecast,' she added, pulling her jacket in.

  I felt a shiver as I recollected our three-day siege in Burgundy due to exceptional snow a couple of years before.

  Inés led the way out of the main gate and up a farm track that took us into a forest. A few minutes later, sensitive to the puffing of the corpulent tsar, she stopped.

  'We'll take a break here so I can tell you some history of the truffle,' she said. 'The Quercy, the name given to this region, comes from the Latin word "quercus" for oak tree. Before organised agriculture what thrived on the high limestone and poor soil were oak trees. The truffle loves to live on the roots of oak trees so the region became famous for it. At the end of the nineteenth century, the paysans in France harvested around three thousand tons of truffles. Today it is a great year if we harvest thirty tons across the country. One hundred times less. Why this massive drop?' She looked around. 'Any ideas?'

  'Chemical agriculture?' I said.

  'Yes, that is a key reason,' said Inés. 'Any other suggestions?'

  She looked around at our expectant faces then continued.

  'What Madame said is correct – truffles are fungi and they need a living soil. In "modern" agriculture we use chemical fertiliser, systemic pesticides and weedkiller; these kill the life in the soil and hence the truffles.'

  I could see question marks on the faces of the rest of the group. It didn't look like they had thought much about what form of agriculture was being used for their food.

  'For the magic of the truffle to occur we need a living soil and that means farming organically at a minimum. Here we farm biodynamically as a way to take the life in our soil to a level beyond organic.'

  I knew Inés could go a lot further with that thought but, like me with a group where the majority hadn't considered what organic farming was, delving into biodynamics was a step too far.

  'But it's also our mode of living that has changed,' said Inés. 'For truffles to develop, the forest needs to be cleared of undergrowth. The light needs to reach the soil. In the past people collected the small bits of wood for kindling; browsers like deer and goats cleared the undergrowth and fertilised the soil at the same time. This light and the clearing of the undergrowth and animal presence are important for them to thrive. Does it make sense?'

  We nodded.

  'Any questions?' Inés paused a moment. 'Perhaps that's enough talking. Are you ready to see the truffles? The dogs are.'

  They were racing back and forth, eager to get going like Dora, our dog, when I did visit
s at the vineyard.

  'On y va!' said Inés, using the French term that means 'let's go' but directly translates as 'one goes there'.

  Beyond us the end of the tall forest formed a window over the track that opened on to neatly manicured smaller trees. We stepped through the gap and entered a different world. The plateau rolled like a great undulating blanket of green stubble dotted with truffle trees in perfect rows.

  'Ca y est! Here we are!' said Inés. 'We keep the trees pruned so that there is light on the ground. You see here?' She pointed to a stone circle at the base of the nearest tree. 'This is le brûlé, the burnt; this plant-free zone means there are probably truffles developing here. It is a telltale sign. We had better hurry – we have to follow the dogs to find the truffles.'

  Inés sped off tracking the dogs. We followed, walking fast but not feeling the urgency that she did. The air was so cold it chapped my air passages as it passed through to my lungs. It smelt clean and clear. A great cloud of moisture formed with each out-breath. The rolling plateau – studded with precise white circles of limestone under each tree – felt remote, isolated and wild. Apart from the sounds made by our group there was deep silence; no cars, no planes, no machines.

  'Show me, Bacchus, where is the truffle?' said Inés, bending over the black dog who was digging about a metre from the base of a tree.

  He looked up expectantly.

  'Look for it. Come on, look for it!' She pointed into the hole with her small trowel.

  He continued a little more frantically then lifted his head again. Inés scraped away some dirt.

  'There it is! Good dog! Bravo, Bacchus,' she said, and gave him a treat from her pocket then took the truffle out of the hole. She refilled the hole with earth, rose and passed the truffle to the nearest person.

  'Smell that and pass it round,' she said. 'Our black gold.'

  I took the nugget from Seán's outstretched hand. It was the size of a large walnut, with a bumpy, dusty, dark-brown surface. I saw why chocolate truffles were called such. It felt weighty and good in my hand. I lifted it to my nose. As I breathed in I closed my eyes. The smell was floral and earthy. It was like being transported to a field rich with late summer aromas and at the same time to the warm comfort of a winter fireside filled with umami notes of the finest cèpes, a meaty forest mushroom. It felt like magic, like it was connecting heaven and earth, summer and winter. In that breath I understood the excitement of truffles and why they cost so much. Years before I bought a tiny jar of oil with a truffle the size of a one-cent piece for Seán as a gift. It cost a fortune. He judiciously seasoned scrambled eggs and a roast chicken with it. We liked it but we didn't understand why it created such genuflection in the world of gastronomy. Now I knew. A sense of eureka filled me as I reluctantly handed it back to Inés.

  The dogs charged off again and started sniffing at the base of a tree about 20 metres further on. It was the young dog's turn. Cosette dug frantically and soon found treasure, but she hadn't learned to give it to her mistress yet. Inés prised her mouth open, scolding all the while, and took the truffle, then tried to explain to Cosette that finding it was good but eating it was bad, and gave her a treat from her pocket.

  Bacchus had found another spot and was digging like a dog in a cartoon, his paws whirring with limestone and clay flying out behind him. Inés ran over to him. Meanwhile, the younger dog had found a different spot and this time, with Inés's attention taken by Bacchus, Cosette ate what she found, gobbling truffles worth more than gold like they were dog biscuits. I called to Inés. She left one of the others to watch Bacchus and ran over to Cosette to salvage a piece of black gold from her jaws.

  'We have to be vigilant and it's difficult with two dogs, but while she's learning I have to take them out together,' said Inés. 'It's best to be at least two with two dogs.'

  Both dogs had taken off again, the older dog Bacchus streaking back up the slope towards the track that ran along the edge of the plateau. We raced after him and Inés called Cosette.

  'It's incredible!' I said to Inés as I trotted next to her. 'From how far away can they smell the truffles?'

  'Oh, we are not sure, but I think about thirty metres. Perhaps more,' she said.

  As if to prove her point, Bacchus swerved into another row and came to a halt about thirty metres further on. He started digging and Inés caught up just in time to save the next nugget. It was like a strange game of hide-and-seek. She turned the metal bucket to show us how many she already had, a good five-centimetre layer of truffles of all sizes.

  'How much are those truffles worth?' I asked.

  'I don't know,' said Inés.

  'It looks like about half a kilogram,' said the portly man. 'At least five hundred euro.'

  'Phew!' I said. 'That's a good day's work for the dogs.'

  'Yes, I think we have enough for today. We'll keep going up this way. The next section is young trees – there are no truffles there yet. We're experimenting with different companion plants between the truffles. We've made the rows wide enough to cultivate wheat between them. There are two benefits: the wheat aerates the soil with its root system and we get to harvest wheat that is delicately perfumed with truffle. But it's getting really cold so I think we should head back now,' said Inés as we reached a limestone track that dropped down off the plateau.

  We followed her down a descent so steep it was almost vertical. I took teeny steps to keep my balance and hung on to Seán's hand. To our left and right the slopes were packed with trees holding the soil in place and stopping erosion. At the bottom a lower road took us back along the valley floor.

  'We used to keep pigs, the traditional black pig of Gascony,' said Inés, pointing to an abandoned pigsty in the trees. 'They lived free and wild in this forest. But it became too much work with everything else that we were doing and made it difficult to travel so we decided to focus on truffles and hospitality. Now we have partners that raise the pigs as we would and we do the maturation of the hams and some other pork products. You will taste them later. We grow grain and sunflowers over there.' She pointed to a flat fertile field. 'We use local products in our cuisine, many of them directly from our farm.'

  We continued chatting as we walked back. I was keen to understand as much as I could about how they developed and managed their farm.

  'For heating we use solar and wood,' said Inés, pointing to rows of solar panels. 'We selectively thin the woods on the steep slopes. That is good for the forest and also forms the core of our heating in winter. We recycle our used water through a reed-bed system and we bottle pure water from the source on the farm.'

  'Impressive,' I said. 'I hope we will be as self-sufficient one day.'

  'It didn't happen overnight. It has been an ongoing project for more than twenty-five years. And of course we have new projects every year and trials with new techniques. We keep evolving.'

  We reached the house and Inés invited us inside to warm ourselves while she put the dogs back into their run. The fire was blazing. We happily removed a few layers and revelled in the heat.

  Guillaume burst through the kitchen door as Inés came in to join us.

  'So what treasure did you unearth?' he said.

  'A little,' said Inés, lifting the can.

  'Ah oui, enough for supper tonight, I think,' Guillaume said and laughed. 'Have a seat and relax by the fire.'

  We threw ourselves into the chairs around the table and allowed the warmth to infuse.

  'Take your time. We'll be preparing the dinner. We look forward to seeing you at seven p.m.,' said Guillaume, making to leave.

  'Before you go, Guillaume, I have a little question. Why no keys for the rooms?' said one madame dripping with jewels – little wonder the question.

  'Oh, I have a funny story for you. We stopped using keys because people kept taking them – by mistake bien sûr. Our doors are old doors and replacing a lost key is not as easy as a quick trip to the key cutter. We didn't want to lose the character and charm of the place b
y changing the locks. Anyway, we are so isolated here, the farm is secure, we have dogs, there is no one around but us. So we decided to get rid of the keys. Everything is open – our house, the guest rooms. One day about five years ago, we had a couple from Paris for the weekend. They looked like they would have been more at home in St Tropez than St Amour. On Sunday evening the woman came running into reception saying, "My jewels have been stolen!"'

  He looked around the room, enjoying the suspense of his story.

  'We asked them to look everywhere. They looked again but returned adamant that the jewels, worth about fifty thousand euro, were gone. I called the local police. Half an hour later they arrived. The atmosphere was very strange. We were all potential perpetrators of the crime. With the crisis we weren't able to continue the normal service. Everyone staying at St Amour was gathered together in this room and questioned one by one next door in the parlour by the police, who also searched all the rooms. By midnight we were all exhausted and still there was no sign of the lost jewellery. The couple and the police went back to their room to search one last time. Hidden underneath the Madame's underwear they found her jewels!'