"Nobody knows the truffles I've seen...." or The Trouble with Truffles.

Truffles have twidges

The rumors of the death of our blog are exaggerated. I personally admit, however, to being distracted for months by my introduction, at an advanced age, to real fresh white truffles from Italy and the resulting obsession they have created.  I have been the victim of a delicious distraction from the important work which is blogging about lunch in the Gump. Why, most of my retorts to statements about the "fiscal cliff" are usually: "What does this have to do with truffles?" or "How will this affect the cost of truffles?" or "Can truffles be grown at the bottom of cliffs?" While it is somewhat of a blessing to be addicted to something so rare and expensive that a high-level "Statey" could never afford enough to ever need rehab, the realization that there are no restaurants in the Gump actually serving them does bring on the need for excessive amounts of Rye Whiskey and maudlin recollections of "American Pie." Such is a life of perpetual trade-offs.

Scallops, black garlic, "truffle" and mushroom risotto at La Jolla.

This post is not only about truffles, but about a dinner at La Jolla where they purport to serve "Pan-Seared New Bedford Scallops with Black Garlic, Truffle and Mushroom Risotto" for less than $30.  I was a little skeptical. After all, truffles are the most expensive food in the world.  They cost up to $3,600 a pound.  So, although a part of an over-large group of loud locals, I specifically asked the waiter whether the dish "really" involved truffles.  I was assured that it did and that the truffles cost $50 per oz. I decided to put my doubts aside, and order the scallops.

Now, had I not just returned from San. Gimignano in Tuscany, perhaps the meal would have fooled me. It was quite good and certainly worth the price. But, once you have tasted a dish cooked with fresh white truffles from Italy or France, you are unmanned and ruined.  Nothing else tastes like truffles.

"The Trouble with Truffles" which aired on 60-Minutes in January 2012, laid out the scandal which is the infiltration of Chinese and Oregon truffle knock-offs into American cuisine.  I would wager that the "truffles" used for my dish were not Italian or French white or black truffles but rather were the relatively tasteless variety from China or Oregon.

And don't get me started on truffle oils.  Although I have heard that oils from Urbani or Antica are genuine and a great way to introduce yourself to cooking with truffle flavor, many so-called  "natural" truffle oils are usually not made from real truffles but from chemical recombinations derived from one of the main components found in real truffles.  High price is also no guarantee of the use of real quality truffles.


Truffle hunting dog before a truffle hunt with an interesting band of truffladours

How can I write of truffles without paying homage to the talented beasts that find them?  Allpots used to bore me with his whiskey-infused memories of his pet truffle-hunting pig Mortimer.  Not any more.  Not since my senses were awakened. But I will tell you that the pigs are no longer the hunter of choice for serious truffle-hunting.  Why you ask? Well, the same reason one should never trust me to hunt them: The pigs eat them unless you stop them immediately when they locate a truffle.  Very intelligent reaction I say. Dogs, on the other hand, although less intelligent have great noses and can be trained not to bother the truffles. Indeed, there is a 'Truffle Hunting Dogs' website in the U.S. for dogs "worth their weight in gold."

Preparing a young Gumpund Shedder for a hunt.

You may also find it interesting to know that by far the best truffle hunters in the world are a breed which originated in our area.  Indeed, the noble Gumpund Shedder*--a breed of which our own Shadow Pup belongs--has shown terrific abilities to find truffles without damaging them.  Apparently, it has something to do with spending their young puppy weeks in the Humane Shelter that gives them a sensitive nose.

So now you know a little more about truffles than you knew before you stumbled upon this blog.  If you ever enjoy the real thing, you will savor true truffle joy not to mention that you can have fun with the word "truffle" because it sounds funny and rhymes with trouble.  Trouble indeed is what you will have if you enjoy truffles too much for, at the very least, you will risk plunging over the "fiscal cliff."

As for me, see you at the bottom of the cliff.....

Whiggin a/k/a "Whiggy B in the Velvet Undershorts"

*Shortened version of the full name: American Gump Pound Shedding Mutter.

Atypical Luncheon Conversation Between Gumpy Old Men at Roux (with apologies to Saki).

[Alas, they were too late. Roux is now True.  The silver lining is that True--and I dined there last evening--is hitting on all cylinders. I enjoyed my lamb loaf with sweet potatoes and I normally don't eat sweet potatoes. Ed. 10/20/2012]

The Archives Office clock reached eleven with the respectful unobtrusiveness of one whose mission in life is to be ignored until 4:59 p.m.  Without so much as a “Tah” to his assistant, our career management level Statey, one Whiggin Blanquet, rose from his calculations of his DROP payment at his faux-wood desk, grasped his walking stick and strode out the door to his near-by reserved parking spot. He quickly drove off toward his favorite lunch spot in Cloverdale—Roux—where he was to be treated to lunch and to a rare conversation with his foil/counterpart, one Chase N. Allpots, the decayed gentleman from Ireland.

“I’m starving,” Whiggin Blanquet announced, making an effort to sit down gracefully and read the menu at the same time.

“So I gathered,” said his Irish host, “from the fact that you were nearly punctual.  Perhaps I ought to have told you that I am now on an Atkins diet.  In your absence I’ve ordered two bowls of gumbo and rice without the rice and a truffle pasta salad without the truffles and pasta. I hope you don’t mind.”

Blanquet pretended afterwards that he did not go white above the collar line for a fraction of a second before he realized Allpots was trying to make a joke.  He was saved when he saw the waiter approaching with two cups of gumbo with rice piled above the rim and his favorite truffle pasta salad that he one day hoped would be named for his boyhood pet and beloved truffle-hunting piglet: Mortimer. (For a prior post mentioning dear Mortimer, click here.)

This little pig could hunt

Whiggin Blanquet breathed a sign of relief.

“All the same,” Blanquet said, “you ought not to joke about such things. There really are such Atkins people.  I’ve known people who’ve met them. To think of all the adorable things there are to eat at this restaurant and in the world and then to order and go through life munching tofu and being proud of it.”

“These Atkins people are like the Flagellants of the Middle Ages, who went about mortifying themselves,” Allpots sniffed.

“They had some excuse,” Blanquet said. “They did it to save their immortal souls, didn’t they? But as for these Atkins dieters, you needn’t tell me that a man who doesn’t love pasta and bread and truffles has got a soul, or a stomach either.  He’s simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.”

Blanquet and Allpots relapsed for a few golden moments into tender intimacies with a succession of rapidly disappearing shrimp and truffles.

“I think shrimp and truffles are more beautiful than any religion,” Blanquet resumed presently. “They not only forgive our unkindness to them; they justify it, they incite us to go on being perfectly horrid to them.  Once they arrive at the lunch-table they seem to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. There’s nothing in Christianity or Buddhism that quite matches the unselfishness of a shrimp or a truffle.  Do you like my new tie? I’m wearing it for the first time today.”

“It looks like a great many others that I have seen lately, only worse,” said Allpots.  “And you really should try to avoid marginalizing religions by comparing them to shrimp or truffles.”

“Touche,” said Whiggen Blanquet once again mindful that the skin-flint Allpots was actually treating him to lunch for a change.  “To what do I owe the honor of this fine occasion?”

Allpots became apparently serious and lowered his voice saying: “We may not agree on much—or even enjoy each other’s company for that matter—but we do agree on one thing: Roux for lunch.  And those of us with the sense to know True Banh Mi from a Taco Bell burrito must patronize our fine lunch spots to keep them here when we need a Shrimp Ceasar Po’boy or Tuna “Nicoise” Salad with a Pimm’s Cup.”

Dear me, Blanquet thought to himself, Allpots has found something worth supporting with his purse and the old boy had a point.

“Well then, “ said Blanquet finishing off the last bit of pasta, “I shall show my support for the cause by ordering one of those divine Shrimp Caesar Po’Boys and a Vodka martini.”

Allpots wiped the trace of gumbo and the beginnings of a smile from his lips, and slowly lowered his dexter eyelid.  Which, being interpreted, probably meant, “Not on my tab.”

(For info on Saki: http://www.online-literature.com/hh-munro/)