TRUFFLE -- Restaurant Pic, and my first truffle.
copyright 1999 Michael Safdiah all rights reserved

A truffle is a strange looking fungus which has an exotic aroma and flavor, highly sought after by gastronomes. It’s only found on the roots of certain trees and only in certain parts of the world. They grow beneath the soil, and they are located by dogs or pigs especially trained to find them. Small wonder they are priced as high as they are. They look like a dried prune which has dried out some more.

I had been on my first "tour des trois etoilles". One Michelin ‘three star’ after another in a southward binge-trek from Dijon to Provençe. I had already visited several of my old haunts where I had done ‘stages’, brief apprenticeships, and had already visited several of my Chefs maitres. One would send me to another, with recommendations, and I was on an eating juggernaut. I was suffering already from too much eating three star food, I had a ‘crise de fois’ - a crisis of the liver.

I had been working very hard at my little restaurant, The Black Sheep, and needed a vacation. Taking the time to "smell the roses" just never occurred to me, I was living inside my life, and loved every minute of it. Stopping to savor is what this experience is about. Perhaps I never really experienced it until I started to write about it.

So I had come to land at Restaurant Pic in Valence one evening, - I had been sent there by Chef Troisgros at Roanne, and went expecting the best of the best - that’s the reputation Chef Jacques Pic enjoys, I wasn’t let down, the room was the nicest I had seen so far, stone arches, perfect lighting, and it felt completely comfortable. I wore my green wool tie, the one with all the grease and gravy marks from every great restaurant I ever ate in. I am proud of that tie.

Confession time, on the way to the restaurant that particular evening, Dusk was just settling in, and I found myself making a hairpin turn thru a tiny Burgundian village, and the local charcutier was still open. The glow of lights and the irresistible array of foods in the shop window in the stone building snared me. I stopped (of course), and bought a few slices of paté -- just to tide me over. I had become The Hungry American. I ate the patés with my hands while driving on the road to dinner. Then having been my own worst enemy, I arrived at Pic for what was to be one of the best meals of my life. .The only thing which might have made it better would have been me with an empty stomach. .

I ordered half bottles each of Chablis Le Clôs and a Le Musigny ‘73, and "Le Menu" That ought to do it, but tonight I saw one item on the a la carte that I was magnetized by: An entire truffle roasted en crôute, with a sherry sauce. It was inspired by the old-world tradition of roasting whole truffles in the dying embers of a fire. Cuisine a’ l’ancienne. Wow. I never had a truffle before; I sent for the head waiter.
" I’ve always had truffles in cans, or slices, or grated, or oil, but I never tasted a whole one before, would it be possible for me to have this? The additional price doesn’t bother me" In a lesser kitchen, a request like mine would upset the smooth flow of their work,
A few moments later, he returns and says,
"le Chef proposes that he do a special menu for you to better enhance your enjoyment of the truffle"
I am floored. Do you know what that means? When that magic statement comes out of a man’s kitchen such as from Pic, The greatest chef in France wants to do something special for little me. That’s what makes him great - how deeply he will bend to accommodate one customer. - of course I said, "of course".
I am in heaven. A crayfish salad arrives, the creatures arranged in a still life as though they were still at the bottom of the ocean. Lettuces and pieces of steamed vegetables touched with a dressing barely making their presence known, exotic oils, ginger enough to not really let you know it’s there, except to enhance the fresh briny character of their origins. The sweet shellfish was sublime in this setting which only served to allow it to stand out without obscuring it. If this was all, it would have enough.
Now, my truffle arrived. The heady sherry sauce was offered in a boat, the waiter about to pour it over the pastry, but I declined at first, preferring to do my own exploration of my virgin specimen. It was simply presented, fresh from the oven in puff pastry, in a white napkin, showing me no hint of the demonic elements I was about to encounter. Have you ever tried to describe something which defies description? It was dark, I knew that it had come from some part of hell which harbored things to tempt man. I recalled that I never could describe chocolate, or coffee, and while we all know how to compare new experiences with known ones, this drove me crazy.
I hesitated a bit before breaking open the puff pastry, awaiting the aromas which were sure to burst forth. I inhaled deeply. I recalled a forest floor after a rain, with sharp earthy smells. I then tried a small slice, inhaled it, chewed another up and held it in my mouth, and another, larger, which I chewed and then inhaled the vapors through my sinuses, the way I learned to taste wine. More I took and thrust under my tongue, was this eating, or something more? I am certain I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care, I was on a quest for experience.
The Burgundy was having its effect on me, There were raspberries, and violets in the wine, that was easy. So now I knew what Truffle was. And damn me, I have no way of telling you, but if you ever get a chance to have one, do it, and remember me.
Next course was a piece of braised beef, with a mound of what looked like mashed spuds and some brown gravy. "How quaint" I thought. Did I come all the way here for plain braised beef and spuds? Well, almost. The beef was probably the best I ever tasted, it was aged Charolais and perfectly done, just imagine the most perfect "chew" and the most wonderful tenderness, and the sauce was an absolute masterpiece. There was a hint of truffle in it, to tie it in with the previous course, and also some marrow. This man had learned to cook like an old woman! Total soft seduction. The greatest compliment I could pay him, he allowed again his perfectly selected ingredients to speak for him, no glamour, no glitz, nothing showy here, a simple humble offering. Therein lay his brilliance.
The mashed turned out to be pureed celery root and turnips, whipped with local sweet butter. I couldn’t get enough. I know I could have asked for more, and gotten it, but I was too intimidated, and there was more than enough food. The dish was a perfect companion to my Musigny. A few tastes of cheese selected by the waiter were offered, but I was already beyond sensory appreciation of them. They were local rare examples of the Rhone region, they were perfect with a little bread.
I don’t recall the rest of the meal, it was the usual dessert cart, the cookies, sorbets, Illes flottant, candies, I only recall the entire experience was a lifetime lesson in humility for me. What a contrast from the other three star chefs, here was one who didn’t need to show off, and that was because he understood how to get at where all of us live.
Chef Pic asked me if I wanted to see his kitchen, and I did, telling him I would peel carrots for him for the chance to spend even a little while with him. He smiled when I told him he cooked like an old lady – he said he held that ancient cuisine above all others. That was one of the greatest months I ever had in my life, and it influenced my cuisine at my little restaurant, The Black Sheep, for years to come.

A note on reservations. Three star restaurants never take reservations for a specific time, as we do in America. One merely reserves a table - and it’s yours for the evening.