‘Truffles’ usually makes me think of bitter, fancy, round chocolate treats, or the sweetened milk chocolate versions sold for the undiscerning masses like me. However, in Italy, we explored a different kind of truffle: the mushroom. They come in either black or white varieties, with the latter being more expensive and having a shorter harvest. They’re even fancier than the chocolates from that perspective: rarer and with a more limited shelf life. If you’re wondering why this little mushroom is so admired, I think it’s the strong, pungent flavor – which is partially due to its smell. Both are water-based, so if truffles dry up, they lose their truffle-ness. (That’s a new word I learned in Italy, certo.) So, you can’t cook them with rice, refrigerate them, or dry them. They are very occasionally turned into a cream of truffle sauce or soup and frozen, but that’s about as wild as it gets. If you’re wondering about truffle oil, turns out that it’s oil, with just a tiny bit of truffle ‘essence,’ whatever that is. Our guide said it the same way a skeptic might say, ‘fortune teller’ or ‘seance.’

Speaking of that, the way we learned all of this is because I booked us a truffle tour. Though the fancy white truffles are not available until October, the black ones can be hunted now – and this region is famous for them. We arrived at a farmhouse in the midst of verdant fields and pretty flowers, and we approached the house. A woman in her 60s was bustling about with some girls in their late teens/early 20s, and she directed us to the back of the house. Being familiar with the Italian concept of time (not unlike my own), we sat and enjoyed the sunshine.

A woman in her late 30s came and welcomed us, finding out that we didn’t speak Italian, and vowing to therefore stay as our guide – though her English was poor, she said. In fact, her English was decent, and she and her father, the truffle-hunter, both spoke good French. (This was significantly more than we had expected, since the tour booker indicated we’d have to communicate with hand gestures, as the farmer spoke no English.)

We had cappuccinos to perk up, and our guide arrived. A vibrant man in his 60s, he turned out to be the farmer, husband to the lady bustling about the house, father to two daughters, and grand-father to at least two grand-daughters. Aside from the truffle hunting and tours, he tilled a garden, raised some animals, and took on other jobs to help keep the place afloat. His wife cooked for both locals and guests at the B&B they ran out of their home, and the girls helped with all of it. It was a pretty house, with guests coming and going, and a small pool overlooking a bucolic view. The whole family exuded a warmth without naivete, a kindness without obsequiousness, a strong regard for family without xenophobia. I liked them immediately.

The start of the tour was an explanation of what truffles are. They’re not tubers (like parsnips or potatoes), though they’re confused for them, because their scientific family is called ‘tuber.’ They are collected with the help of a dog by farmers in the region, on lands owned by the state. The hunters go at night, mostly so that the dogs don’t get distracted by female dogs, but also so others don’t see where they’ve found a stash. The dogs are usually fixed for this reason, but theirs isn’t strictly a truffle dog, so much as a family pet – and they couldn’t bring themselves to do it.

Did I mention that all of this was being communicated by our guide in slow Italian?? His daughter would translate a few more complex bits, but I was thrilled to realize that at the slower Italian speed, augmented with a few photos from the brochure, I understood almost everything! Perhaps this helped raise the tour and the family in my estimation even more, because it’s very gratifying to be able to understand so much in a language you don’t speak. Whenever I had questions, I would ask them in French, which wasn’t great for Brandon, but their French was just so much better than their English. Over the course of the whole conversation, there were only two things I recall needing help to understand: the word for pig and the concept of unscrupulous truffle collectors filling holes in the mushrooms with dirt to trick purchasers about the mushrooms’ quality.

After the explanation, they brought out the dog. His name was Billy, and he was a mixed breed three-year old. He was white, to make him easier to spot at night during the hunt. They had begun training him at five months, and he was a very affectionate medium-sized hound. Not unlike some three-year old humans, he was generally obedient and loving, but would occasionally test his limits and be kindly but firmly rebuked by the farmer. Seeing as how it was daytime, a true hunt was not possible, but they took us out to the training field they use, just next to the house. They use dried-up truffles, which they can’t sell and which have a weaker smell, to train. The goal is for the dog to find the truffle, to indicate where it is, and not to eat it! So, a big part of the training is rewarding the dog for the find and training him that truffles can be eaten only if their smell is pure, not if it is combined with the smell of the farmer. This way, the farmer can collect the mushroom without worrying that the dog will immediately devour it. (This is also why they don’t use pigs, by the way: they can’t be dissuaded from eating the truffles they locate.)

This ‘time in the field’ was incredibly short, which was as unexpected as the hazelnut tour. However, we felt like we learned a ton. And did I mention that they gave us a big cheese and salami plate afterwards, with Arnaise wine? The farmer even sat with us and chatted, and only left to tend to guests when the lunch hour was in full swing. We ate in their B&B restaurant before heading off to the hazelnut tour. The grand-daughter who served us spoke minimal English, but good German. (Not that this helped us communicate, but we got the sense that the family had drawn straws in the language-learning department.) The food was good, and the dessert even better. We left with our stomachs full, our brains taxed from our linguistic efforts, and our appreciation heightened for this local family.