Hunting Truffles

by Dick Rosano

  They ended the conversation soon after, and Paolo sat on the edge of the bed. Paolo's eyes closed and he dozed off again, but was interrupted by a light tapping on his door.

  In his half-awake state, it seemed to come to him from the end of a long tunnel. Paolo was temporarily disoriented. The room wasn't his, nor was it the room he occupied at Zia Rita's house. Shaking his head, he heard Stefano's voice, followed by a softer, feminine voice that he recognized from his dream.

  Rising quickly and answering the door, Paolo peered out at his two visitors. Stefano had his hands on his hips and Nicki held her hand up to her mouth to hide her grin. Paolo twisted sideways to sneak a quick look in the mirror and soon understood her mirth. He was disheveled, his hair stood on end, and his eyes still had sleep in them. Stefano and Nicki were dressed and ready for the afternoon in the piazza, and he looked like a character from a sleep study.

  “Get dressed,” Stefano commanded, though his tone was more forgiving. “We'll meet you in Piazza Savona in ten minutes.” Nicki just smiled and gave Paolo a loving pat on the arm as she turned to go.

  As ordered, Paolo made it to Piazza Savona in ten minutes. It was only a few blocks from the hotel but in a different direction from their trek earlier, so Paolo had to ask directions to find it.

  Truffle hunters work in secrecy, preferring to hunt during the night and early morning hours to hide their hunting grounds from others. But Rita and Stefano hunted for their truffles in the market square, in Piazza Savona, on Via Maestra, and other avenues known to truffle hunters and buyers alike. Here, on their first afternoon in Alba, the bounty from the night before was being offered for sale.

  Piazza Savona was a long-used, little-kept secret place for truffle hunters to sell their crop. Half of the truffle harvest was sold through legal channels – these sellers possess a tesserino or license – but another half of it was conveyed hand to hand, from hunter to buyer, along these streets. In the Piazza Savona, sellers strode the square with eyes dancing across the crowd, eager to spot someone who appeared to be looking for a truffle or two. Some hand signals were known, and certain truffle hunters were easily recognized, but the unmistakable clue was a man with a large coat and bulging pockets - - pockets filled with the elegant provisions.

  Rita and Stefano approached a hunter, known as trifolào, and opened the discussion. Paolo was introduced, as was Nicki, but Rita and Stefano were more interested in their catch than in exchanging pleasantries. From the edges of the conversation Paolo and Nicki could detect signs that the sale was not going well. They leaned in a bit to catch more detail, and just then Nicki jumped.

  Paolo spun around to see a tall young man with long black wavy hair standing behind them, a large grin on his face and his hands on the small of Nicki's back. This must be the thus-far absent Francesco.

  Nicki jumped into Francesco's arms, shared a warm and longing kiss, then separated reluctantly to introduce Paolo. The men shook hands while Rita and Stefano distracted their gaze from the truffle transaction to see what the commotion was. Stefano, playing the role of protective father for the group, excused himself from the sale and stepped aside to be introduced.

  “This is Francesco,” Nicki said, with an unmasked tinge of pride in her voice.

  “Mi piacere,” Stefano said, nice to meet you.

  Nicki had called Francesco from the hotel and said to meet them at the piazza that afternoon. He joined them to be with Nicki, but also to serve as agent for his father's own truffle harvest. His father, Tomaso, was a farmer whose fruit and vegetables supplied many of the restaurants in Alba, but he learned the truffle business from his father – and he had inherited his father's secret truffle grounds.

  While truffle hunters' secrecy is legendary, they are also supremely superstitious. Finding gastronomic treasures buried in the dirt calls for both human notions. They work at night to cloak their actions and to hide the specific location of their truffle fields, and they offer prayers that seem to blend Catholic dogma with pagan ritual to ensure a good harvest.

  And none of this could be done without the aid a strong olfactory sense, stronger than the one possessed by humans. Smelling the shavings of a fresh truffle across a restaurant dining room may be a simple feat for humans, but ferreting out the same tubers while they are still under the ground requires a being that is super-human.

  A pig.

  Well, the truffle hunters used to employ pigs, whose snouts were so effective that they could find even small truffles at the base of the favored trees, the most common breeding ground for these little chef's delights. But pigs are big and heavy enough to get the better of a simple farmer, and many truffles disappeared into the mouths of the pigs before the hunter could wrestle the animal away from the find.

  So in recent years, trifolài employed well-trained dogs whose manners were more civilized than the pigs and whose strength could be bested by the humans on the other end of the rope.

  But here, in the Piazza, it didn't matter whether the hunter used a dog or a pig, Rita and Stefano – as hunters in their own right – just wanted to score some truffles for their restaurant.

  Chapter 27

  Piazza Savona, Alba

  Paolo was absorbing information about truffles and their history in a rush, another distinct difference from his unhurried work in a vineyard that never seemed to change. Trifolài were the kings of gastronomy, even though their treasures would ultimately be transformed by the chefs who delivered these white diamonds to the table.

  Past the introductions, Stefano was more interested in the conversation that Rita was having with the hunter, a discussion that had become quite spirited. It seems the hunter wanted an astronomical sum for this year's truffles, a price that was nearly triple the past year.

  “Non ci sono tartufi!” he exclaimed, “there are no truffles,” throwing his hands up before shrugging his shoulders, admitting that there must be some, or else he would have nothing to sell.

  #

  The thief was walking through the piazza and overheard this. His Italian was a bit rusty, but he knew what was being said. He almost smirked, but knew that would be a dangerous “tell,” like the Americans say about a gambler's tick that would give him away. So he walked on.

  #

  Rita immediately suspected that he was trying to gouge them and demanded to see a sample. The man reached into his pocket, in a coat that sagged under the weight of bulky truffles gathered in every compartment, and withdrew a lump that resembled a gnarled potato. It had a rough, wrinkled surface and was still dusty from the earth. Rita brought it to her nose and her eyebrows lifted. It was clearly an excellent example, aromatic and fresh from the morning's hunt, but she again questioned the reason for the price.

  “There are so few truffles this year, and we've been out many times,” the hunter explained. “We don't know what's happened, but there are far fewer than in other years.”

  His protests were generating some sympathy from Rita. Not enough to convince her to pay the high price, though.

  “Is there a fungus?” she asked, then immediately regretted it, because the tartufi bianchi, the prized white truffle from this part of Italy, truly is a fungus. But her meaning wasn't lost on the hunter.

  “No, signora, there's nothing wrong in the ground. The earth smells the same. But,” he said with a downward glance, “there are no truffles.” He acted as though he had not only lost his harvest but a dear friend.

  A short man with long black hair flopping down on his forehead approached from the fringe of the discussion. Francesco recognized Alfonso and introduced him to everyone in the group. He was a fruit dealer and, like Tomaso, he supplied produce to the restaurants and grocers in the area. Alfonso greeted each with a smile and joined the exchange between Rita, Stefano, and the truffle hunter.

  “Si, it's terrible,” said Alfonso. “Just as the truffles were coming in, the supply seemed to vanish. No one knows what has happened and, in my own business, I am suffering because I would have represe
nted the trifolài in this year's market.”

  Tomaso appeared from around the corner and joined his son Francesco, just as Alfonso excused himself and walked away. Tomaso greeted Nicki with a warm embrace and was introduced to Paolo, but he was reluctant to talk to Rita and Stefano while they were still engaged with the truffle hunter in conversation. The people of Alba knew one another and the farmers were often friends, but they hunted for truffles alone and when these gastronomic gems were the subject of conversation, they kept apart.

  “I overheard the talk. Si,” Tomaso intoned, then switched to English, “the truffle harvest is tiny this year, a mere trifle of years past.”

  Despite her concerns about the harvest, Tomaso's comment brought a smile to Rita's lips, knowing that Tomaso's sometimes halting English disguised an expert understanding of the subtleties of the language. She knew that “trifle” was derived from “truffle” and was a code used by early hunters to hide the importance of their find. The inauspicious outward appearance of a truffle, with its dusty, knobby look, carried the theme that it was nothing, and the holder would guardedly explain to suspicious people “it's just a trifle.”

  “Si,” Francesco joined in, “it's like someone just stole the tartufi right out of the ground.”

  Stefano turned to Tomaso. “Do you believe there's nothing that can be done? The harvest is truly down and we have to pay these prices?”

  Tomaso shrugged his shoulders, a time-honored gesture among Italians that conveyed many things. First, that the respondent is unsure how to answer the question. Second, to indicate a certain divine influence, so what's the point of answering. Lastly, to use a theatrical move to stall for time to find the right words.

  “I have to charge more, too,” Tomaso finally offered. “If I only have one-third the crop, but my landlord still wants three-thirds of the mortgage payment…” He let the sentence die without voicing the obvious conclusion.

  Chapter 28

  Dinner at La Piola

  Rita and Stefano broke away from the others to find more trifolài to talk to. Walking slowly toward the outer edges of Piazza Savona, they whispered back and forth, trying to analyze the problem and yet find a solution to theirs: Ristorante Girasole was renowned for its truffle menu in October. Unless these two could hunt down more truffles, the year's menu would be embarrassing.

  Tomaso and Paolo stood longer talking about the harvest as Paolo soaked in mountains of stories and anecdotes about the wondrous tuber. Tomaso explained the science of truffle organisms, called mycology, and explained to Paolo the less scientific knowledge that had become part of tradition and folklore among the Albese and, more importantly, among the trifolài. Paolo listened intently, impressed by the detail that this man, a farmer like his father, knew about the subterranean prize that he brought to market each year. And Paolo thought about his own father.

  “Mio papa,” he said, “grows grapes. We don't make our own wine, but our vineyard is one of the best in Tuscany.” The pride in his voice took even Paolo by surprise. He smiled to himself at the realization that, only a few days ago, he wanted to divorce himself from those vines forever.

  “Bravo,” was Tomaso reaction, and smile spread across his lips as he clapped Paolo on the shoulder. “Tuscan wine is fantastico!”

  They continued their conversation about truffles, but Nicki and Francesco decided that such work was not foremost on the minds, and they departed the piazza for some personal time.

  “You must learn the difference between the French truffles and the Italian truffles,” said Tomaso. “I'm not saying the French have nothing to be proud of, but – truly – the Albese white truffle is as a diamond, the French Périgord a garnet.”

  Tomaso patiently explained to Paolo about the difference between the black Périgord truffles of France and the white truffles found there in northern Italy. The Tuber melanosporum – France's black truffle – might be “very nice, it might work with some dishes,” he admitted, though his compliment was clearly only a consolation prize.

  “But the Tuber magnatum here is the king of all truffles.” Tomaso continued his praise from what was obviously a much-recited lecture on the majestic properties of the fungus, occasionally referring back to the French black truffle if only to make his point. Paolo listened carefully, his attention driven in part by his recent and still vivid encounter with his first truffle dish – not insignificantly with the Italian white truffle.

  “But I've heard people here arguing about whether the truffle should be cooked or served fresh. What is the right way?”

  Tomaso waved his hand dismissively. “Ask Fabrizio a question like that. He's the chef, I'm the hunter. Besides, Italians argue about everything.”

  After a time, Tomaso decided he needed to return to his work – selling the small collection of truffles he had with him – and he left Paolo to ponder this new world he had entered. Paolo wandered away from Rita and Stefano, wandered about the piazza, watching the people interact, peering into shop windows, and reading the menus of the restaurants that lined the edges of the square. Then he decided to explore the neighborhoods of Alba.

  Nicki and Francesco had already gone their way, and Rita and Stefano were still in Piazza Savona searching for a decent cache of truffles for their restaurant.

  The early evening came upon them, as each of them, singly or in pairs, wandered off in pursuit of different discoveries. But around eight o'clock, Rita and Stefano, Paolo, Nicki and Francesco met at La Piola for dinner. By prior arrangement, Tomaso joined them at this establishment on the Piazza Risorgimento, a restaurant that reminded Rita and Stefano somewhat of their own. A restaurant that combined traditional dishes with more modern surroundings, and one whose dining room was usually filled by tourists and locals alike.

  Rita and Stefano were anxious to talk to Tomaso about their conversations with other trifolài, and Paolo wanted to ask about Alba and relate what he had seen from his travels around the city. Nicki and Francesco were quiet, but sat affectionately close and seemed privately happy.

  Tomaso ordered a bottle of Ceretto Moscato d'Asti Vignaioli di San Stefano, a local sparkling wine, to begin the feast. Packed with fruit on a lightly dry frame, this wine was perfect for food but doubled as an aperitif, which suited this table of hungry patrons very well.

  Rita began.

  “Tomaso, is it true that the entire crop is smaller this year? Could it be a plague, or infestation in certain areas?”

  Tomaso looked down at the table while gently twirling the liquid in his wine glass. He thought for a moment and then looked up at Rita.

  “We hope that is the case. Of course we don't want an infection to sweep through the tartufaie” – the groves of oak and hazelnut trees around whose roots the best and most prolific truffle catches could be found.

  Slowly, Tomaso shook his head side to side. “Not like the Great Plague.” He didn't have to say anything more. Rita and Stefano understood the reference well enough. The Great Plague referred to the infestation of phylloxera, the root louse carried to Europe in the 19th century on American grapevines, a pest that wiped out centuries-old vineyards, devastating the culture of wine for decades and nearly ending Europe's thousand-year reign as the world's finest wine producing continent.

  Francesco and Paolo also understood the reference, since both of them hailed from agricultural families, but the subtle reference was lost on Nicki.

  “The Great Plague was something that nearly destroyed the vineyards,” he began, shaking his head side to side. His youth did not diminish the passion of his report.

  “The vines were dying, emaciated, in pain. We tried everything. We used sulphur. We flooded the vineyards to drown the pest,” he continued with his prayerful recounting, as if he was actually there during the late-19th century disaster.

  “Then we realized that the American vines back in the United States were not suffering. We realized that the only way to save our vineyards was to transplant our own vines onto the American rootstock that ha
d brought this pest to our land.”

  Everyone at the table looked at the pained expression on Paolo's face, but it was Tomaso who decided to return the conversation to the problem at hand, their own “great plague.”

  “We hope there is no plague, and so we search together sometimes, breaking a tradition of secrecy that goes back many generations, so that we can find the truth. If some tartufaie are still producing, and some are not, that would mean the worst.

  “But it is not so.” Tomaso allowed a tense smile, shrugged his shoulders in the eternal Italian gesture meaning so many things. “We find no truffles, so either the Il Peste – the plague – is real or something else has gotten all our diamonds.”

  Food began to arrive at the table and their attention shifted to that. A platter called selezione di salumi arrived first, a broad array of sliced meat and cheese.

  Rita ordered Tajarin con Burro, a delicate noodle served with melted butter. Before the waiter could get away, Stefano whispered something in his ear and, when the dish arrived, everyone at the table could smell the aroma of truffles on her pasta. The aroma didn't escape her attention but when she playfully poked Stefano, Paolo was surprised by the reaction. Stefano turned toward him and remarked that the trifolài have long considered truffles to be an aphrodisiac. Rita, catching his words to Paolo, blushed but didn't delay in helping herself to the dish.

  The choice of menu items around the table focused on traditional Albese dishes, with venison and rabbit featured among them. Sauces were light and infrequent, as Italian chefs prefer to use herbs to bring out the flavors of the food.

  Appropriately, the next bottle to arrive was Vietti Roero Arneis, a crisp, lively white wine that was perfectly suited to light- to medium-styled dishes. They ate and drank, traded stories about Alba in general and truffles in particular. But their discussion seldom wandered far from food and wine. Paolo listened more than he talked, and he drank in not only the fine wines of Piedmont but the traditions and culinary secrets of the region.