My first encounter with a fresh truffle—beyond a couple of shavings over pasta in Italian restaurants— took place on a family vacation in Tuscany twenty years ago. My son was on winter break from middle school, and we had rented in a small four-story (one room per floor) stone house in Valboncione, a hilly Tuscan village in the province of Arezzo.
Most days were grey, cold and damp, but we had expected that, with day trips to La Verna, the medieval mountaintop monastery where St. Francis is said to have received his stigmata, the city of Arezzo, where an 11th century monk named Guido invented modern musical staff notation, and other sites of interest within-driving-distance.
Returning from one outing, I spotted a roadside stand with a hand-painted sign TARTUFI and several snazzy cars parked in front. “STOP!” I shouted to my (then) husband, who hit the brakes and slowly backed up.
In the small shack, cold and unheated as it was, I was immediately hit with an intoxicating and indescribable scent that’s far more complex and primal than descriptors like pungent, musky, woody, and earthy, garlicky, and nutty. You sometimes hear the words “animalic” and “pheromonal.” I’m hardly an expert, but these sound right to me.
When my senses settled, I was looking at about a dozen raised wooden bins in which truffles seemed to be divided by roughly shape size, color, and (I assumed) grades, each with a handwritten card stating price, in euros, per kilo or per gram.
Behind the bins, a burly, bearded proprietor in a heavy woolen cap, knitted scarf, and fingerless gloves was plucking truffles from various bins, offering sniffs to customers he seemed to know well. Even with my rudimentary command of Italian, I understood their agreement that the truffles’ fragrance would bloom once they warmed up at home.
I could tell the owner had neither the time nor the inclination to educate an American tourist on the ins and outs of truffles. My husband and son were waiting in the car. The pressure was on. All I knew, from reading, was that I was after one Alba white winter truffle, prized for its distinctively intense flavor and aroma.
Cerco un tartufo bianco, per favore, I said to the owner. Per la cena – tre persone. Looking for one white truffle, please – dinner for three.
Sizing me up as not a high roller, he led me to a bin near the entrance, where knobby, mottled tubers were not the smallest and least expensive but also nothing like the smooth and oversized beauties at the other end. For a gnarly knob a little smaller than golf ball, I paid the equivalent of $35.
Dinner that evening could not have been simpler or more memorably delicious: pasta, cooked al dente, swirled in a pan with melted butter, grated parmesan cheese and enough cooking water to create an emulsion, transferred to a shallow bowl, and topped with the shaved truffle. (I was lucky to find a truffle shaver in a kitchen drawer.) From reading, I knew not to subject the truffle to direct heat. The creamy pasta just off the stove, was enough to bring out its oils.
My ex thought the dish was okay (one of many reasons he’s an ex). My son liked it. But me? If there’s a gastronomic Valhalla, I’d found the portal. I knew I had to bring (read: smuggle) truffles home to share with friends.
The roadside stand was too distant to revisit. Besides, we couldn’t even remember where it was. Over the next few days, I kept my eyes peeled. The day before we left, in nearby Caprese Michelangelo (yes, his birthplace) I spotted it: TARTUFI with a phone number on a sign tacked to a door. I called, and an actual truffle hunter (and his talented dog) met us at his tiny warehouse.
For the flight home, I stashed my contraband— two white truffles—in a sunglass case deep in my checked bag where I knew they would stay cold. Apparently, the dogs at JFK—at least back then—were not trained to sniff out truffles. Mine made it home and, within a day, onto plates of pasta for a few appreciative pals.
Over the holiday season you can find fresh truffles at specialty stores like Citarella. This year, for a quiet dinner with my current /forever husband, I ordered a single .5 oz white Alba truffle from Urbani, the online shop based in New York. With next day delivery it cost around $140.
Truffles are highly perishable. If not properly handled after being unearthed, they quickly dry out—losing the volatile compounds that make them what they are. In the best of circumstances, they should be eaten within a few days to a couple of weeks (that’s pushing it) of harvest. For brief storage and transit, the cool, humid conditions of the underground must be replicated,
Urbani has it down, giving truffle lovers their best shot at full flavor and aroma. If good things come in small packages, here small, good things come in oversized packages. Mine was good-sized, ingeniously packaged with quality cold packs and pliable, tissue-lined foil housing a cloth drawstring bag. Inside, with plenty of room to breathe, a small tuber magnatum, was loosely wrapped with nothing more elegant than a square of paper towel.
Our dinner was memorably delicious. My husband, while generally indulgent of my culinary obsessions, surely had his doubts when he first saw the small knob. But he loved it, as I was certain he would. And, as I pointed out, this pricey dish was a lot less so than dinner for two at any Tribeca restaurant.
True, truffles will never be on regular rotation at our house. But I think we’ve found a new holiday tradition.
Shaved truffle pasta for two
Ingredients
- 1/3 box of tagliolini or linguini
- 1/2 stick unsalted butter
- 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
- Kosher salt to taste
- enough pasta cooking water to create an emulsion (a few tablespoons)
- .5 oz white Alba truffle, shaved (see note.)
Directions
- Melt butter in a 9″ pan
- Grate Parmesan cheese and set aside
- Shave truffle into a small bowl.
- Cook pasta al dente, according to directions.
- Over low heat, quickly stir in Parmesan cheese, salt and enough pasta water to create an emulsion. Add the pasta and swirl.
- Quickly transfer the creamy pasta into bowls, each topped with half of the truffle shavings.
Note: I don’t have a bona fide truffle shaver. My mini mandoline, pictured, worked great.
