We all know what the French, bless them, think of their
food and their wine. In my time I’ve countered asides about the British and
their baked beans with sly digs about the native 25-course Christmas Eve
specials. I’m sure, though, that neither they nor I have ever spoken from
personal experience. Now I can.
At the beginning of last week, a commission for an
article took me down to Cahors, the capital of the Lot and the supposed gateway
to the Midi. My theme was trufficulture and my presence coincided with
the last days of the truffle season. As a horse’s doovers, I was
cordially invited to attend some kind of tasting event at the Villa Cahors
Malbec. I’m not quite sure what I imagined, as I stepped out with trepidation
into the frigid evening air. All I knew for sure was that I might be some time.
Walking briskly through the deserted streets of
after-hours Cahors, I arrived at the appointed hour. The place was already
teeming with the bourgeoisie in their finery. My heart duly sank. I guess I
must have pictured a kind of stand-up affair where you can sample a few
exquisitely delicate canapés, sip a glass of dark brooding wine from the
vicinity, exchange a few pleasantries, jot down a few notes and then slip out
unnoticed.
I felt like a sardine that had just been plopped into a
brightly lit tank of tropical fish. Where do you go? Where do you hide? The maître
d’ took me to a table where there was a free chair. The introductiona all
went straight in one ear and out of the other. Gradually, I pieced together
their identities. Opposite, a man who manages a château and vignoble
owned (I think) by the Prince of Denmark. To my left, his elegant wife, who
runs chambres d’hôte for the well-heeled. To my right the vineyard’s analyste.
His job, I learned, was to make the very most of the terroir. In other
words, to grow the best vines and to produce the best wine possible given the
available soil.
Given how charming everyone seemed, I surely had no right
to feel quite so uncomfortable. But just watching the analyst at work when the
first of many bottles of wine arrived underlined my total ignorance. So that’s
it: swish the wine around like you’re spinning socks in a washer, thrust your
nose deep into the glass, swish it around another time and then tip some into
your mouth, swish it around internally and then swallow. Being of the
sip-admire-and-swallow school, I realised the need either to keep a low profile
or to make out that I was a total naïf. With nowhere much to hide, I opted for
the latter option. After all, I was English. We can be excused all manner of
improprieties, because we don’t know any better.
Once the menus were distributed… let the speeches
commence! Not only was this clearly a long-distance sit-down affair, but
there would be no choice. To take my plate up to the bar and ask if it would be
possible just to make me an omelette à la truffe with some nice fresh
vegetables, well… I could imagine the ensuing silence and the glances of
horror. The two chefs who had created this menu for our delectation took the
mic to announce what we were in for: the first a local chef and the second an
old chum of his from Issoudun in the Berry, whose restaurant was based in the
very house where Honoré de Balzac wrote one of his novels. The sommelier then
introduced us to the next wine as an intense and complex vin de Cahors.
My eyes glazed over. Being just a little peckish by now, I popped a canapé into
my mouth – only to realise with a rush of embarrassment that it was a chi-chi
butter pat, designed to be spread and not eaten. If anyone witnessed the faux
pas, they were kind enough to stay schtum.
The first two and the last two of eight plats were
fine for a faux vegetarian, but the four in between were Meat City. Since my
vegetarianism represents a flag of domestic convenience and a stand against
factory farming, I decided that tonight I would just go with the flow. Join in;
take what the chefs offer without a word of protest. Two more men arrived at
our table and the conversation took a turn for the machismo: from wine to the terroir
to the chasse. Rather than stand up and sweep everything off the table
to make clear my antipathy to hunting, I did what I normally do. I turned to
the opposite sex, in the person of the elegant woman to my left, and engaged
her in rather more interesting conversation for the rest of the evening.
After the crème de lentilles vertes du Berry aux
truffes and the soft-poached egg à la purée de truffes, the first of
the meat courses arrived: a saucisson de pieds de veau et foie gras de
canard à la vinaigrette truffée. If I were going to make any kind of stand,
this was surely the moment. Anything to do with veal or foie gras would
normally find me astride my high horse. However… the thought of all those
tedious explanations in the face of utter disbelief orientated me towards the
coward’s option. Eat it.
Wash it down with another swish of another wine. In all,
eight different wines were brought to our table. The label was shown off each
time and the wine tested by someone other than me before being poured into
glasses. I put my hand up in a futile gesture to suggest that I couldn’t drink
too much because I had to walk back to the hotel. Nevertheless, it behoved me
to taste each one lest I had to write about them in the article with any degree
of conviction.
There were two desserts. I hadn’t realised that you could
add truffle to a dessert, but then again I hadn’t known much about truffles. My
sole experience was care of a small bottle of oil given to us by a friend. The
first was a massepain d’Issoudun aux truffes: a marriage – according to
its creator at the microphone once more – of vanilla, almonds and truffle. And
then a crème cuite truffée, which was… simply extraordinary. So yea, I
say unto the disbelievers, one can indeed add truffle to a dessert.
Resisting any temptation to shake the hand of each and
every diner, each and every tropical fish in that very bright aquarium, I said
my goodbyes to the immediate strangers who had been good enough to share their
table with an ignoramus, joined the throng to take a quick photo or two of all
those responsible for the evening’s entertainment, and slipped out into the
night.
It was even colder than earlier and I walked back a
little less steadily. It had been an ‘interesting’ experience: uncomfortable,
but revelatory. At least I knew a little now about the flavour of truffles.
It’s earthy and fungal, but neither immediately obvious nor overpowering.
There’s a subtlety you can’t miss. A truffle stamps its character on everything
it touches. Rich but not dominant, it is I suppose a little like the soil or terroir
in which it matures. I wouldn’t, however, pay over a thousand euros a kilo for
it.
In the early hours, I woke up to find that, to my horror,
my head was spinning. Yes, I had tasted each wine out of obligation, but I
honestly hadn’t felt that I had drunk that much. I suspect that it was also
something to do with the opulence of the food. All that cream and all that
butter (with hardly a fresh vegetable in sight).
I understand much more about truffles now. I also
understand why the French suffer so from liver complaints.
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