The Truffle

When we received a gift of a black and white truffle from Mr A&N's brother, the four of us present began debating what to do with them. There were many tantalizing and outlandish options, but my brother-in-law was adamant about what we needed to do with the white truffle: we were to have an egg breakfast the next weekend, and shave the entire truffle over the eggs. I was surprised he didn't suggest coating our toast in gold leaf first to ensure we didn't lose sight of the decadence of the occasion.


Truffles are one of those food stuffs that make me wonder what mad demon possessed the first person who suggested this thing would make good eating. They look like the sort of thing that would be removed from the body with a proclamation of "Ooh, that's a nasty looking fellow". Their smell is one produced from a pair of socks worn by an un-washed teenage boy and left festering under a bed, being cooked in sunshine, and with a generous nugget of Camembert ripening in each toe. To be fair, that first truffle-finder probably had a long career ahead of him in creating a range of French cheeses.


And so we've lived as I'd imagine the Sun King would have lived (minus the profusion of cherubs and gilt-edging), with a breakfast of white truffled eggs and an evening snack of black truffles on bruschetta. I made sure to have some good-quality crusty bread on hand since I figured your average loaf of white wouldn't really do. The truffles taste much better than they smell (again, like many a French cheese) - a beguiling musky, woodsy, and ultimately mushroomy flavor that would sometimes chase itself away from you, only for it to sneak back in and fill you with its fungal essence. It's not a treat we will have a chance to repeat often (until that magical ship comes in - you know the one) but it was lovely while it lasted.