Gorging on the most expensive tubers in the earth
As a seasoned food writer, I've been happily afflicted by every culinary ennui under the sun, from foie gras-fatigue and canapé-overload to warm chocolate cake-syndrome and sweet Malmsey-malaise. However, I've yet to succumb to the most elusive of all epicurean distresses -- a windfall of white truffles, which usually only strikes a lucky few traveling in Piedmont on a very large expense account between November and January.
The goal was to see if I couldn't ingest enough highly truffled dishes over a long weekend in Piedmont to make me, and a friend I enticed along, grow weary of reveling in the most delectable and expensive tuber in the world. And while we were at it, maybe we could finally solve the conundrum that had troubled truffle-lovers for eons: What is the very best way to enjoy a white truffle? Is it shaved onto scrambled eggs? Risotto? Ribbons of eggy, handmade pasta? A molten pool of cheese fonduta? Or, as one friend prefers, shaved directly onto her warm and waiting tongue (best savored at home in close company).
See our slideshow of Piedmont's truffle bounty
It was a tough challenge, but I felt primed and ready at our first meal at the famed Guido in Pollenzo, just outside of Bra. A mere three hours after landing in Torino, we eagerly watched the waiter shave a mountain of gossamer, silvery slivers onto the risotto. As the pile grew, so did the musky, earthy, pungent truffle scent that hit us as soon as we walked in the door.
With great ceremony, the waiter shaved and shaved, working a knobby truffle the size of a golf ball until it completely disappeared onto our plates. In the spirit of research, my friend and I had ordered different dishes as the vehicles to carry the intoxicating white flakes to our mouths. I chose risotto, and he, carne crudo, the Piemontese take on steak tartare wherein veal does a cow's work.
We bent over to inhale deeply and tasted both dishes. Because it was served piping hot, warming up the truffle slices and releasing their flavor, the risotto easily won. We finished it quickly before it cooled, growing giddy with each forkful. Then, we dove back into the chopped veal. While delectable on its own, we agreed that the meat overpowered the tuber (Piedmont veal calves have a heartier, more pronounced flavor than most bland American veal). But not being ones to quibble over degrees of bliss, we cleaned the plate.
Part of the joy of eating truffles in Piedmont is pairing them with their vinous soul mates, older Nebbiolo-based wines such as Barolos and Barbarescos. At Guido, we started with a 1990 Ettore e Livia Fontana Barolo, a velvety wine with as seductive a scent as the truffles; vibrant with notes of dark cherries, kirsch, Fernet Branca and chocolate. A bargain at 70 euros, it cost less than our truffled appetizers and greatly enhanced their charms. For the rest of the five-course meal (the truffle-less part), we drank a pristine, minerally 1952 Borgogno Barolo that tasted of cinnamon and roses. It went particularly well with Guido's inventive take on saffron and honey-roasted young goat. Guido's formidable offerings of older Barolos and Barbarescos can be attributed to the restaurant's former incarnation, the original Guido da Costigliole near Asti, once a beloved fixture in the culinary world for nearly half a century.
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After time and a nap worked their magic on our full stomachs, we asked the concierge at our hotel, the comfortable, new Albergo Cantine Ascheri, for a modest restaurant guaranteed to serve truffles. Laughing, he assured us that this time of year, all restaurants would have a few on hand. And indeed, even a few blocks away at the simple and plain Badellino, the waiter produced two marble-sized babies to shave over our eggs, which we ordered both fried and scrambled. With their soft curds, the scrambled eggs were an even more felicitous showcase for the truffles, which seemed to dissolve into fragrant puddles in the buttery folds.
Unfortunately the truffles themselves did not have the depth and intensity of our afternoon delights, driving home the point that all truffles are not created equal. It's up to the buyer to examine and smell each one before handing over cash. It was a lesson we remembered the next day in Alba at the truffle market, where we shopped for a truffle for lunch.
See our slideshow of Piedmont's truffle bounty
The market takes over the whole center of town and sells a variety of local delicacies, like ostrich egg pasta and wild boar sausages. We zeroed in on the truffles, displayed like jewels, each brownish knob available for perusal. Because it was early in the season, the truffles were on the small side. Although they can grow as large as a pineapple and cost over six-figures, the most substantial one we found was a no bigger than a hen's egg, priced at 150 euros. It lacked the profound, funky, almost garlic-like truffle scent we were looking for, so we settled on a 40-euro, kumquat-sized lump with a compelling scent and smooth form without a lot of crevices for soil to lodge in (since truffles are never washed, just brushed clean, the more even the surface, the better). The merchant assured us that it had been dug up that very morning by his faithful dog Tessa, and the truffle's intense aroma gave us every reason to believe him.
Spoiled foodie that I am, a truffle hunting experience on a previous Piedmont trip had me considering doing it again, perhaps through one of the pre-arranged tours available. But the idea of rising at 4 a.m. to tromp around in frosty oak forests proved too daunting. Truffle hunters work under the cover of night to guard their secret spots from each other, and other hunter's dogs. At one time, pigs were used to sniff out truffles, but they had a nasty habit of eating them whereas canines are more interested in dog biscuits than a truffled snack.
We carefully carried our prize to the next hotel, the lovely Casa Pavesi in Grinzane Cavour, which had a wide sunny terrace overlooking the vineyards. Our gracious host was only too happy to supply hot buttered toast for our feast. I came armed with my own sea salt and truffle slicer. In all its simplicity, the toast with a sheen of sweet butter won out -- truffles, we discovered, like butter. As do we.
Luckily, Piedmont's cuisine, heavily influenced by the French, is packed with buttery stuff. That night, at the rustic and pretty Taverna di Frà Fiusch outside of Torino, we experimented with truffles on two kinds of butter-sauced pasta. As we suspected, the plainer tajarin (like a delicate taglierini) was a better truffle conduit than the sage-scented, thumb-sized, veal-stuffed agnolotti called plin. Both divine, they matched perfectly with the wine, a 1999 Cappellano Otin Fiorin Barolo, which, though young and a bit tannic, was nonetheless pleasingly ripe and full of red cherries and earth.
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The next morning, I awoke still tasting the truffles from the night before. As we drove north to a sweet country restaurant and food coop, I contemplated if at the end of this last day in Piedmont I would finally feel truly truffle-saturated. The Cascina del Cornale is the lovechild of Elena Rovere, who searches out and sells the finest locally made products available with a commitment to preserving the region's culinary heritage.
See our slideshow of Piedmont's truffle bounty
We submitted to the proprietress' knowledge as she talked us through a tasting of the undiscovered cheeses and cured meats made by her neighbors. We shaved Elena's stock of small yet lusty truffles over a crisp green salad dressed in one of her pet projects, heady vinegar brewed from an ancient variety of pear on the verge of extinction. The combination of truffles, olive oil, sea salt and the sweet-tart vinegar was unexpectedly brilliant and offered a break from the richness of typical Piemontese cuisine, however short-lived.
Our next course was a brawny sausage called cotechino, made from pigs' feet and cubes of chewy fat. It was served atop a bed of crispy, browned cabbage, which relieved the heaviness of the meat. After a much-needed but very small digestivo also made from Elena's prized pears, we set off for a walk in the vineyards to kill time before dinner.
One thing that was becoming clear as our power-truffle journey extended through the region was that the truffles we normally see in fancy restaurants in the United States are bigger and far more expensive than what we tasted in Italy. The more expensive part made sense, but I wondered why the truffles I saw at home were so much bigger. Was it just because I was visiting too early in the truffle season? I put the question to John Magazino, who imports truffles for Bel Canto foods in the United States.
"The best, biggest truffles come to the States because we pay a lot more for them," he said. Truffles are extremely perishable -- they are shipped overnight in careful conditions then immediately sold and used within a week. Compared to a truffle-rich dinner at Ducasse in New York, for example, even our most expensive Piedmont meal (at Guido, about 250 euros for lunch) was a bargain.
For our last, blow-out meal at L'Osteria Del Vignaiolo in La Morra, we decided to try and order the biggest truffle we could, which turned out to be the size of an apricot. The waiter recommended the fontina fonduta to shave it on, and we nodded our consent while he made a show of sniffing and weighing the truffle to get it ready for our dinner.
Out came the dishes, piping hot from the kitchen. Out came the truffle slicer. All the other diners glanced over at us as the scent of shaved truffle drifted in their direction. Soon it would be their turn to pick, weigh and shave their trophies, but in that moment, the stage was given over to us. There was enough truffle to eat the top layer off the fonduta then to shave on some more, ensuring that every single bite of melted cheese was thoroughly smothered in truffle.
We finished and licked our spoons clean of every truffle-crumb, mourning the end of the trip. Had we reached the height of truffle contentment? Temporarily, for sure, since truffle satisfaction is as fleeting as truffle season itself.