At the foot of the knurled oak tree shrouded in the mist he knelt and performed his standard prayer to St Anthony.
The knees of his trousers starting to absorb the dampness as they sank into the patchwork quilt of damp leaves. Tintin, his terrier mongrel was tied to the hazel stick planted firmly in the ground. Agitated, yapping and barking he had been pulled away as soon as he started to dig.
“Shh…shhhh” he chided the mutt, and scanned around. The last thing he needed was unwanted attention.
In these parts no one really minded anyone foraging and gathering. Mushroom collecting was a social activity at weekends. The trompettes, the chanterelles, there were plenty around during this season. Even the big chunky ceps, their golden bloated caps nibbled away by the woodland critters were seen as the foragers gift.
It wasn’t the same for truffles though. Tuber melanosporum, the Perigord truffle was known as black gold for good reason. They commanded a good price and the short season meant demand was high. Smaller ones were sold directly to the local restaurants, to friends in bars and around the markets and whilst there were plenty of buyers for these, there were also a few competitors.
Small scale locals and mainly it was fine. Room for all.
These small truffles were everyday. It was the big ones that he was famed for. For these the discerning buyers were always keen. So keen in fact that when a prize specimen was discovered word would spread.
He could create a bidding war and this was the best month to do it. The brokers were hungry and they would fight to buy from him.
His renown was widespread and his routine well known, wandering the same bars and markets every week. No one knew his real name or at least they never used it. He was simply referred to as “Butin”.
The scruffy terrier whimpered and pulled side to side on his leash as the trowel deftly excavated around the roots. White chalk pebbles mixed with damp brown loamy soil pushed and flicked into the tangled weeds. A few inches down the prize became apparent. To an inexperienced eye it would appear to be nothing more than a dark stained stone but Butin was focussed and skilled. He extracted the fist sized fungus with the care of an archeologist uncovering a priceless artefact.
As horizontal beams of sunlight shot between the trees he reached for an old shaving brush from his jacket pocket and gently removed the clinging soil.
Cautiously he looked around noticing the morning mist had burned away in the rapidly rising sun.
He stared down and admired his find. Not quite spherical, with a few shallow indents, the black warty scaly skin with a moist shine. Importantly it was undamaged. Truffles this size were often damaged by careless or inexperienced foragers. Often by the dog, even more by the pig. He had learnt his craft with a pig. As a boy his grandfather was a skilled truffler. His pig was spared the butchers block for a while on account of a good snout but she developed a taste.
Once they do they are more difficult to pull out and if they root it out and get a bite its all the harder in future to get them off.
That was why he used dogs. Tintin was good. Eight years experience made him valuable and every year someone would offer a handsome amount for him. Next year he would have to train another. Another terrier probably. He had trained gun dogs and they were much more biddable than terriers. Labradors in particular. Handsome dogs but they would be easily distracted by game scents and flushing a noisy pheasant or a covey of partridge was as much a signal in the woods as blowing a trumpet would be. His craft and his success was all down to clandestine activity.
Others had approached him to teach them but he always refused. The locals would be too proud to ask and these fools were all foreigners. They had bought homes in the region and their romantic ideas of a traditional life led them to him. He was polite and would accept a cognac and a hear their offers but he neither wanted their company nor their money. He did want their truffles through.
A few years ago he agreed to train a truffle dog for a banker from Paris. He had been approached through one of his Parisian brokers and the banker who fancied himself as something of a gourmand had purchased a local grand chateau rumoured to have a large plantation of truffle oaks. Indeed it did and Butin had long fancied them for himself.
Brief discussions with the banker resulted in permission to documents and surveys allowing him to assess the extensive acreage of the lands. Rather than take this popinjay out Butin had first suggested training a dog for him.
As promised, by the next season a small pretty hound with a good nose and feverish enthusiasm was delivered to the banker along with a map of the places to look and instructions from the master.
Proudly the banker held parties for esteemed guests impressing them with his skill of finding truffles almost every time. The truffles were not huge but enough for the banker to proudly hand them to his chef to be served at grand banquets and lavish celebrations of the invited rich and famous.
Prior to being seated a grand toast would be raised, a toast to fortune, where he likened his nose for investment being as keen as the truffle hound searching out riches where others could not.
The truth was far from it.
Indeed the property was rich with the treasures of the land. Woods with a healthy population of partridge and boar, a marsh full of woodcock and open meadows with scattered oaks.
These were fine truffle oaks but efforts to cultivate them had resulted in an over growth of the wrong truffle.
Butin could tell immediately just looking at the land.
Interspersed between the oaks were patches of hazelnut trees.
It wasn’t unusual. Greed overcame people and they tried to cheat nature. Tried for a quick win. Hazels inoculated with truffle mycelium.
They grew more quickly than the oaks. In less than a decade an arboretum of hazels could be matured.
In an ill thought out attempt to increase harvests speculators attempted to grow truffles like potatoes or crops. In most cases the mycelium flourished but didn’t produce prized black truffles. Instead it overwhelmed the black truffle and created new spawns of practically useless and tasteless musky truffles.
Seizing this opportunity Butin had trained the bankers dog to find truffles expertly. The musky truffles. These looked every bit the same as the prized black perigord truffles and even to the trained eye could be deceptive. A common trick in the truffle markets was to slip them in with the black truffles and sell them on weight. Only when the unsuspecting customer got them home did they discover that their money had bought them a practically flavourless and quite useless bit of fungus.
Whilst the banker and his prize mutt were overjoyed at the great collections of black gold there was a problem.
The majestic bounty that they returned to the chef at the chateau was delivered with pride. Yet the chef, a veteran of fine cuisine, having trained in the grand restaurants was no fool. On sighting these truffles he was suspicious. A brief sniff and he would reveal the deception. Butin’s subterfuge required his collaboration.
Butin had it covered. It worked perfectly. The chef would accept the false truffles from the banker with great enthusiasm and surprise. He would discard them and serve up extravagant dishes generously adorned with fine black truffles supplied from Butin, the banker funding the entire operation and the chef taking a cut.
A perfect business model. The chef on the make. Butin with a regular and reliable customer and the banker unaware of the elaborate plan, yet overjoyed by the ability to brand himself as a fortune hunter.
Tintin whined and shook at the leash keen to continue the hunt.
Butin peered over the hedgerow towards the chateau, the mists lifting to reveal its turrets and wet slate roof. A party must be happening as a number of luxury cars occupied the gravel drive. A helicopter stood static.
He looked down at the huge black sphere in his palm and chuckled as he carefully placed it alongside the others in his basket.
From Charcuterie by Grant N Stone:
Nick Inston 