Power Truffling Through Piedmont

Melissa Clark January 25, 2007

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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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