My Burgundian Truffle

Villecien, Burgundy, FRANCE — “Allez, allez, keep looking!” Two fluffy Pyrenean mountain dogs roam and sniff the oak tree roots under my skeptical eye. Suddenly one starts to scratch. Quick as a flash, their master, Michel Jalade, darts forward and takes over the digging. Hollowing the ground with his hunting knife, he uncovers a dark, cindery ball the size of a large walnut. The unmistakable, pungent aroma of fresh truffle fills the air.

This is no ordinary fresh truffle. This is my truffle, grown on my bit of Burgundian woodland--rather scrubby woodland, as a matter of fact. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing to suggest that one of the world’s most valuable food commodities might be hidden in the soil. I return in triumph to the kitchen to display the treasure to admiring friends.

When I first heard of truffles growing in Burgundy, I didn’t believe it. Provence and Perigord are regarded as the home of the jet-black fungi whose price is way up alongside caviar and foie gras. Surely truffles would not grow so much farther north?

I was wrong--the Burgundian truffle has been known since ancient times, and 100 years ago production reached almost 30 tons.

The novelist Colette, who was raised in Burgundy, remarked, “It has a good smell, but no taste whatever--eat it on its own, scented and grainy-skinned, eat it like the vegetable it is, hot, and served in munificent quantities.”

In the kitchen, I found that Colette is right; my truffle smelled wonderful but lacked much taste. The catch is that the Burgundian truffle, “Tuber uncinatum,” is not the same species as “T. melanosporum,” the truffle of Perigord. Gray Burgundian truffles lack the assertive taste and intense black color of melanosporum. They command only half the price, though at $150 a pound for the producer, even that is pretty steep.

Growing truffles in Burgundy is becoming a commercial proposition, thanks to recent advances in their propagation. Truffles grow on the roots of trees--notably oak, hazelnut and hornbeam--spreading their hair-fine mycellium under the ground. In the 1970s, the French National Agricultural Research Institute developed a process for inoculating saplings.

Soil and climate must be right, and the grower must wait at least 10 years for results, stripping the ground of weeds meanwhile. As the mycellium spreads, it kills growth above it, so that bare ground can be a telltale sign of the presence of truffles. Another is the truffle fly, which swarms in agitated fashion above the odorous fungus.

Here we reach the crux of trufficulture--finding the black nuggets. Truffles are invisible, sprouting at 3 to 20 inches under the ground. Hunting them, with dogs or pigs, is an age-old skill.

“It’s a game for the dogs,” says Jalade. “I start them searching for cubes of Gruyere cheese, then gradually introduce bits of truffle. They play hide and seek, and each time they receive a reward, a dog biscuit.”

Jalade’s champion dog, Bali, last year tracked down a giant 3/4-pound specimen more than 100 yards away.

Jalade hunts nearly 20 acres of ground and last year gathered 900 pounds of truffles, of which about 700 were salable. (Like a rotten apple, a bad truffle can contaminate a bucketful.) The 1996 season, which in Burgundy opens in September and ends in January, has begun badly.

Jalade shakes his head sadly, “This year is a disaster, too dry.”

Truffles are at their best fresh. Monsieur and Madame Jalade scrub the craggy tubers and vacuum-pack them, sending more than half their crop within 48 hours to Tokyo.

The taste of truffle is unlike any other--heavy, musky and by no means to everyone’s liking. If ever you have the chance of a fresh one, make the most of it by grating it raw over fresh pasta or a green salad, where the intensity of its color and flavor will surprise you.

A single truffle, packed for 24 hours in an airtight container with a dozen eggs, will permeate the eggs, making them perfect for scrambling or an omelet. It will do the same for a jar of rice. Chopped truffles are wonderful in warm potato salad, they add depth to brown sauces and, in one famous dish, slices of black truffle are interleaved with white sea scallops--a luxury indeed. Canned truffles, the only form generally available, are best thinly sliced for decoration as flavor is faint.

But we come back to finding the truffle itself. My charming, witless Dalmatian named Zigzag does not have what it takes to be a truffle hound. So my truffles are destined to remain a hidden mystery. Not many of us are up to truffle prices on the open market, so few of us can follow Jalade in flavoring the sauce for veal escalope with sliced fresh truffles, their black tint an enticing contrast to the white meat. But just in case you do, here’s the recipe. Otherwise, follow my lead and substitute fresh or dried morels or any dried wild mushrooms.

VEAL ESCALOPE WITH TRUFFLES

A single truffle, fresh or canned, goes a long way. If you substitute wild mushrooms, you’ll need 1/3 pound fresh or 1 ounce dried mushrooms. Trim and pick over fresh mushrooms, washing them only if sandy; soak dried mushrooms in warm water 5 to 10 minutes until puffy and then drain them. Saute fresh or dried mushrooms in 1 to 2 tablespoons butter until tender, then use as truffles. Serve the veal with fresh white fettuccine to contrast with truffles.

1 fresh truffle or 1 canned truffle or truffle pieces, with liquid

4 veal scallops (about 3/4 pound)

1/2 cup flour seasoned with salt and pepper

3 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon Madeira or Cognac

1/2 cup veal stock

1/2 cup whipping cream

If using fresh truffle, scrub it under cold water and dry it. Peel crusty outer layer from fresh or canned truffles and finely chop peel. Cut 4 thin slices from truffle and coarsely chop rest.

Sandwich veal scallops between 2 pieces plastic wrap and flatten them with rolling pin or base of heavy pan to 1/4-inch thickness. Coat with seasoned flour, patting to remove excess.

Heat 1 1/2 tablespoons butter in large skillet until foaming. Add 2 veal scallops and saute until brown, 1 to 2 minutes. Turn and brown other side, 1 to 2 minutes longer. Remove them. Saute remaining scallops in same way.

Discard butter from pan. Add Madeira and flambe. After flame dies down, add stock and boil, stirring to dissolve pan juices, until reduced by half. Whisk in cream along with coarsely and finely chopped truffles. Bring sauce to boil. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Add scallops to pan and warm gently 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer scallops to warm individual plates, spoon sauce over top and top each with 1 truffle slice.

Makes 4 servings.

Each serving contains about:

318 calories; 325 mg sodium; 117 mg cholesterol; 22 grams fat; 12 grams carbohydrates; 16 grams protein; 0.1 gram fiber.