A Hunting We Will Go

Before we left the Perigord region (some 11 days ago now), we got to visit a truffle farm. It didn't sound like something that would be deeply interesting, but proved to be a real highlight. Our farmer was an earnest and very knowledgeable man. He wasn't going to let us leave without learning about how truffles grow, about different species of truffles, and about the history of his family in the truffle-growing business. In fact, he is a part of the truffle aristocracy in the area. His father was the president of the truffle producers of France for years.




The farm is in a tiny village, with residents of only two families--our gentleman farmer and his wife, an aunt, his sister, another aunt, and a woman from San Francisco (who lives there each summer and has the biggest home in town).








After Monsieur got us properly steeped in truffle-dom, he took us out into his oak and hazelnut "farm" with his trusty dog, Fara (pronounced fah-RAW). Fara loves to do her job, and she sets to work on the command "cherche" (search). Before long, we ( with Fara's help, of course) had found several truffles and headed back to the tasting room, where Madame was serving toasts topped with her truffle butter.




For those of us that have long thought there is a lot of fuss over nothing when it comes to truffles (and we would count ourselves solidly amongst that group), let me tell you that we must not be getting hold of the good stuff. These truffles had lots of aroma and a pungent flavor that was unlike anything I'd ever tasted. I don't know that we can access anything like this in Portland, but I now know that the real thing is worth at least a little fuss.








- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad