November
14, 2006
Celebration of Tartufi Bianchi
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And
then we went to the White Truffle Festival
at BuonItalia in Chelsea Market…
by Jackie Beach
I have a frightening addiction to white truffles. My first taste
of a sultry Alba truffle occurred one week ago and I am
irreversibly hooked. If you have yet to be taunted by the dank,
heady tuber, I implore you: let it be. If you don’t try it,
you’ll never know that you have to have it. I am in the
process of figuring out a way for me to get more, more, more of
these unearthly treasures. Please visit my website,
sendmewhitetruffles.com, for more information.
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White Truffles at Buon Italia
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Attending the White Truffle Festival at BuonItalia in Chelsea Market last Wednesday was one of the loveliest experiences I’ve had to date. As I walked into
BuonItalia, the pungent, earthy scent pushed me along to the back of the store where small hills of white truffles were sitting in baskets and being shaved over steaming dishes of eggshell-colored risotto and deep golden polenta. Owner Mimmo
Magliulo, with dimpled smiles, shaved the truffles behind the glass display case filled with first-class aged prosciutto and salami and grand blocks of aged
Parmigiano- Reggiano.
He was soon joined by his brother, Tony May, who owns the famous San Domenico restaurant on Central Park South. I knew I was in for a treat. Little did I know the truffles, I mean treasures, I was about to behold.
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A glass of deep garnet Nebbiolo in one hand and a plate of creamy risotto topped with truffle in the other, I made my way to a communal table and sat down with a group of four others contentedly putting spoon to mouth. The white truffle’s smell seductively beckoned my nose to the dish and I found myself face to face with the paper thin shavings of a fungus that costs over
$2,000 a pound. I looked up and expected to feel embarrassed at my apparent naïveté, but the eyes staring back at me were twinkling with shared appreciation.
My tablemates told me the truffles were brought in from the Piedmont region of Italy where truffle hunters unleash dogs to sniff out the knotty globes beneath the dirt near the roots of mostly oak trees and hazelnut bushes. Throughout the meal, they related stories of times in cities with fabulous names such as
Abruzzo, Florence, Bologna, and the Amalfi Coast. It was a lesson in wine, history, geography, and the Tartufo (Truffle) Festival.
I took a bite of the risotto. The rice was al dente, with a bite in the center, and the rich white sauce melted away, leaving only the imprint of the truffles’ woodsy, vaguely garlicky taste. Feeling woozily intoxicated from that first bite, I finished the plate slowly, not wanting to see the white plastic on the bottom of my plate.
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“It’s crazy to be eating such gourmet food on plastic plates,” said the bespectacled Italian man in plaid in front of me.
“Hey, you can’t have everything," replied the distinguished-
looking Italian woman in pearls to his left. “It doesn’t change the taste.” I nodded in agreement. I could have been sitting with a PG-13 version of the Sopranos. Surrounded by Italians, sitting family-style, it felt like a nonna’s kitchen.
Then, nonna herself - a petite, aproned woman brought the two women and two men two more plates. They kindly offered me a taste of each and my tongue would not let me decline their generosity.
I took a bite of the cushiony, thick toasted bread topped with velvety ricotta and truffles.
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Finger licking soon ensued. I was spooned a portion of pline (tiny, pinch-shaped ravioli) covered in brothy sauce and more truffles. The pasta was tender and otherwise indescribably delicious.
Next came the Polenta del Trifolau and the aroma alone was enough to make me dizzy. The silky polenta swirled with glossy egg yolk and luxurious pools of cheese made an unearthly decadent bed for those precious truffle shavings. Each bite was a sublime experience. The finale was a simple plate of bright yellow, fluffy scrambled eggs generously blanketed with truffles. Somehow, it could almost top the polenta for best dish of the night. The simple flavor of the eggs brought out even more complexity in the truffle. The entire menu was masterful and the sensory details lingered long after the plates were cleared.
I’m in love. In the coming days, I found myself doodling new variations of my name. Jacqueline Truffle, Jackie Truffle Shaving, Jackie White Truffle. I don’t know, I think they sound good together. I know one thing for sure: the white truffle is a drug. Stay away. At $150 an ounce, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
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And then what happened...?
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Links:
Buon Italia
Chelsea
Market
Jackie Beach
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