Truffle time in the Périgord

Sandwich with truffle butter and Serrano ham. (Photo: Marita van der Vyver)

By Marita Van der Vyver

10 Feb 2023

It’s not required that you taste a fresh black winter truffle before you die. Millions of people die happily without this experience. But once you do taste — and, above all, smell — the real thing, you’ll probably want to do it again.

I was a grown woman when I smelled the king of black truffles, Tuber melanosporum, also known as the Périgord truffle, for the first time. It was a case of fascination at first whiff. It wasn’t the reason I chose to live close to the village of Richerences in the southeast of France, where the world’s biggest truffle market is hosted each winter, but it was one of the big attractions of Provence. I ended up spending more than 20 years sniffing truffles in winter.

Now it looks as if I’m going to spend the next 20 years in the only other French region famous for this particular fungus. Although most Périgord truffles are cultivated in Provence, my new pied à terre is in Périgord in the southwest, which has long been the main processing hub of the eponymous delicacy.

In fact, Périgord did not only give its name to the truffle, but the truffle also changed the name of the region. The Black Périgord around Sarlat is called black because of the colour of the truffle, just as the Purple Périgord around Bergerac is named after the grapes and wine from this vicinity.

Once again, I didn’t choose to live here because of the truffles.

But they do add a distinct joy to living in this part of the world, I decided a fortnight ago on the ancient market square of Sarlat, where the annual truffle festival was celebrated for the first time after the Covid hiatus. Sarlat, apparently the town with the highest density of listed historical buildings per square metre in France, obviously has many other attractions. But on that bright Sunday morning, strolling from one stand to the next to savour an astonishing variety of truffle titbits, I couldn’t think of any better reason for being here in winter.

This gourmet product was once the most expensive food per weight on earth, and with prices often reaching above €1,000 per kilogram it is still far from affordable. Fortunately you need only a few grams to make a luxurious omelette or delicious pasta or — the ultimate luxury — to enjoy some raw slivers on a slice of toasted baguette spread with the best butter and a sprinkling of fleur de sel. The longer a black truffle is cooked the less flavour it has, so eating it unadulterated and fresh from the earth is highly recommended.

And if you live in the rural south of France — Provence or Périgord — it is relatively easy to get hold of a precious few grams. You might even strike the jackpot and acquire friends with their own truffière or plot of land where truffle oaks are grown. If your friend-making skills are not good enough (mea culpa), you still have a huge choice of truffle markets and truffle festivals during the winter months when not much else is going on around here. The crowds of summer tourists are long gone, the days are short and cold, the nights very dark and eerily quiet, so going to a local truffle festival becomes quite an occasion.

But what is it with truffles, friends keep asking me. Are they really worth the whole song and dance? The outrageous price and the hushed tones in which chefs and foodies discuss them?

I still haven’t found an objective answer to any of these questions. How can you be objective about anything you love?

And describing the odour is as impossible as catching a fairy. Granted, a rather smelly fairy.

As for the taste, according to Frances Case’s ever-entertaining reference book, 1001 Foods You Must Try Before You Die, scientists have identified over a hundred aroma components in Tuber melanosporum, including nutty, grassy and sulphurous (yes), “with hints of vanilla, rose petal and bergamot”.

I suppose I could misquote Shakespeare and say a truffle by any other name would smell as pungent. But since we’re talking about food, I prefer to quote the great French food writer Brillat-Savarin who stated: “Whosoever says truffle, utters a grand word, which awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas.”

The word does indeed promise a sensual experience of smell and taste and texture — although I have to admit that saying “truffle” out loud has never led my thoughts in any overtly erotic direction. Possibly just a lack of imagination on my side.

Of course, it is ridiculously expensive, because it is scarce and difficult to cultivate, with a really short shelf life. But unlike many other ridiculously expensive gourmet products (French foie gras, Russian caviare, Japanese Kobe beef) it can be enjoyed with a clean conscience by vegans, vegetarians, flexitarians and anyone else who wants to eat more sustainably.

Ravioli with foie gras and truffles, cooked in a bouillon made with a duck carcass. (Photo: Marita van der Vyver)

No animals are harmed in the process of bringing a truffle from its subterranean cradle among the roots of oak trees to our tables. Perhaps some of the pigs who were traditionally used to sniff out the truffles were not treated kindly enough (they would after all have preferred to eat the truffles themselves), but nowadays dogs are mainly used and luckily for us, dogs don’t like truffles.

So it doesn’t take Nostradamus to predict that truffles are going to get even more sought after for the purposes of haute cuisine in the coming years. The good news is that Tuber melanosporum is now also cultivated in the southern hemisphere, in countries like Australia, New Zealand and, yes, South Africa. This means that gourmet restaurants in both hemispheres will be able to offer the coveted winter truffle to discerning diners throughout the year.

I used to guide small groups of mainly South African tourists on tasting tours through Provence, and one of the highlights of these trips has always been a three- or four-course dining experience featuring truffles in every dish from starter to dessert. (I might soon be offering the same kind of tour in my new territory of Périgord, and truffles will certainly have pride of place again.)

Of all the variations of truffle dishes I’ve enjoyed, the most unexpectedly delicious was the truffle ice cream of the Maison de la Truffe et du Vin in Ménerbes. Named Mont-Ventoux, after the mountain in Provence, and presented like a miniature snowy mountain peak on a beautiful plate, it is a sensational combination of flavours.

One of the many stands offering truffle snacks. (Photo: Marita van der Vyver)

Until the past month, I actually couldn’t imagine any other truffle dessert that would be more pleasing to the palate — but when it comes to truffles, my imagination has a long way to go. At the truffle festival in Sarlat, with chefs from all over France presenting imaginative truffle snacks, I tasted truffle macarons for the first time. And what a discovery this was!

If you love the light cloud-like texture of a good macaron, you would most likely have tried as many different flavours as you can find. My favourite flavours used to be salted caramel, lavender, and pistachio, in no specific order. Now a truffle macaron is my new favourite, firmly in first place.

Truffle tidbits: mushroom and truffle cappuccino, conchiglioni with truffle sauce, and cream cheese and truffle tartlet. (Photo: Marita van der Vyver)

The macarons might have been the most surprising taste of the day, but there were numerous other delights, from a frothy mushroom and truffle cappuccino to a cream cheese and truffle tartlet, as well as various pasta and truffle combinations. My tasting partner and I were especially taken by the conchiglioni with a truffle sauce suprême, and intrigued by the ravioli with lightly fried foie gras and truffles, cooked in a mysterious-sounding bouillon de carcasse. The carcass in question was from a duck, we realised, since duck is the other great gourmet product of Périgord.

Cream cheese and truffle tartlets. (Photo: Marita van der Vyver)

And since you can’t say “duck” or “goose” in Périgord without thinking of the famous fatty liver known as foie gras, it was no real surprise that quite a few of the tempting titbits presented at Sarlat’s festival combined truffles with foie gras. Even less surprising was that this duo of luxury products inevitably pushed up the price even more. We wanted to taste as many truffle snacks as not only our stomachs but also our purse could take, so we stayed clear of the foie gras, mostly, and concentrated on the truffles.

Sandwich with truffle butter and Serrano ham. (Photo: Marita van der Vyver)

Instead of the tiny toasts with foie gras and truffles, for instance, we opted for a slightly less glamorous but more filling sandwich with truffle butter and slices of excellent Serrano ham. Other mouthwatering offerings included bone marrow with truffles; a smooth potato mousseline with truffles, and a poached pear served with chestnut mousse and a creamy truffle chocolate sauce.

We won’t see such a spread of truffle temptations again soon. The season is almost over, the blanket of winter darkness is shrinking by the day, and some of the bare trees in our new garden are beginning to sprout spring buds. I’m as excited as everyone around me about the approach of spring. I’ve survived enough dismally cold and dark European winters to feel this excitement in my bones.

But my relief at the end of another winter is also tinged with a little sadness. I know I’m going to miss the truffles. DM/TGIFood

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