Every day, a link to Languedoc Living
appears in my Inbox, providing a useful compendium in English of news, event
listings, and feature articles concentrating on our region but including a
taste of the rest of France, Europe, and the world. I give the site a thorough
look as often as time permits. Recently, I learned that the season for truffle
fairs had arrived. Is it any surprise that my wife Cathey knew this? The
surprise, I suppose, is that I realized that Cathey would be interested and that
I proposed without any prodding that we pay a visit the truffle fair in
Villeneuve Minervois, a small town in the foothills of the Massif Central about an hour north and west of us here in Quarante.

We arrived at the salle polyvalente (community room) at about 10am. Just about every village has one of these multi-purpose spaces. Villeneuve Minervois’ sports a kitchen and a stage at the edges of a basketball court downstairs and what appeared to be classrooms/meeting rooms upstairs. A market was already in full swing. Tables displaying wine, artisan whisky, saffron and saffron-infused products, truffle-infused butter and brie, artisan chocolate and cheeses and sausages, and knives and other gadgets with points and edges were arranged in an outward-facing square on the floor of the court. After a quick circuit and tastings, we had purchased two bottles of sparkling Limoux wine and a couple of hunks of chocolate, both white and dark, both with bits of raspberries. I thoroughly enjoyed my sip of Black Mountain, very smooth artisan whiskey. No sale, though. I’m a bourbon man myself.

The truffle foragers arrive with their musky little
treasures in baskets, in glass jars, or in plastic containers. They present
their finds to an examiner stationed by the entrance, in this case a youngish
man casually dressed in jeans, and his female assistant. They represent the
French Department of Agriculture as well as the local Brotherhood of the
Truffle. The examiner assesses every single truffle, sharp knife in hand,
trimming them as needed, carefully shaving and smelling. If the truffle passes
muster, it goes in a bin on the examiner’s scale. If it doesn’t, it’s added to
a pile of rejects under the examiner’s table. There may be some discussion
concerning a rejection, but the discussion is always civil and the examiner’s
judgment is final. The assistant writes down the forager’s name by hand in a
simple, lined notebook and, when the examiner is finished, writes down the combined
weight of the forager’s approved truffles. The truffles are then placed in a
cloth bag, tied securely, sealed, and handed back to the forager.
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One final note. Cathey rhapsodized over the smell of
truffles that she said pervaded the salle
polyvalente. I frankly didn’t
notice it. But when friends popped by our house the day after the fair for a
visit to set a luncheon date in order to introduce us to their favorite local
restaurant, Cathey brought out the jar and opened it to give them a whiff. And
from the other end of the table the fragrance of the truffles wafted over to
me. Unmistakable.
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