The February Truffle

The February Truffle

The wind they call the tramontane was gusting off the Corbieres mountains, blowing high white clouds down the Agly River Valley toward the Mediterranean. In the summer the tramontane (literally ‘from beyond or the other side of the mountain’) can bring cool air. In the winter and spring it brings rain. It was the first Sunday in February and we were on our way to the truffle festival in Lesquerde. The road between Maury and Lesquerde, the D19, crosses the Maury River and climbs steeply up the mountain.


We spotted several stands of wild boar hunters, their neon-orange vests brazen in the trees and bushes. The hunters had set up their stands in the steep, wooded gully beside the road. It was prime wild boar country and not the kind that ever sniffed out a truffle. These tough, ugly and smart little piggies were true sons and daughters of Bacchus. There are grape growers who regularly lose twenty to thirty percent of their crop each year to wild boar. You can bet that a good many of the hunters had a personal score to settle

We arrived too late for rock star parking but found a spot beside the highway about a quarter mile away, and with several dozen other people, walked into Lesquerde. The fair is pitched at the wine cooperative, taking up perhaps two short blocks altogether. The street was lined with vendors on either side selling honey, cheese, sausages, herbs, flowers and local crafts. Neither the truffle hall, nor the wine coop tasting room, had opened yet. There was a feeling of expectation, of subdued excitement. Like being at a Rolling Stones concert waiting for the opening bands to finish up and clear off.

I bought a small plastic glass of Muscat for one euro—the same stand was selling instant coffee at the same price. I also bought a small desk calendar, the kind that stands up like a photo frame. It has a picture of Maury on the front, then every month inside has another picture of our home village of Maury. There must have had at least three dozen calendars of villages in the area. It is a swell calendar, even if there isn’t a picture of our house. Maybe next year.

After my second Muscat, I found the churro cart. (There are always churro carts at Catalan festivals, thank goodness. Churros, sometimes called Spanish doughnuts, are long pieces of extruded dough, deep fried crisp and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. I bought dozen in a paper cone and shared them with friends while we watched the musicians. There were only two: a tall man with a white beard playing a battered horn, perhaps it was a French horn. The other, a shorter, wiry fellow with a sly look, who played a nickelodeon which seemed to operate from printed sheets, like a player piano. They would play a song, then stop to have long chats with other vendors and friends who stopped by. Maybe they were waiting for the Rolling Stones as well. I wanted to give them some coins but they never put out a plate or a hat.

A gypsy dressed all in black and wearing a black hat stood beside the churro cart. He seemed to be always rolling a cigarette. . There was an empty space all around him as he watched the crowd.

The churros were good. (Maybe not as good as that little place just off the Plaza Mayor in Madrid where they serve fresh churros with cups of chocolate so thick you can cut it with a knife. But that’s a different story.)

Finally, the main event. The truffle hall opened precisely at 10:30, as advertised. Inside, there was an overwhelming smell of truffles, dark and pungent. Around three sides of the room---it was perhaps 30 feet wide, 40 feet long—the truffle sellers were standing behind small tables. On each table was a bowl or box of truffles and a small scale of the kind drug dealers use. Although the room was filled with people and a fair number of dogs and children, it was very serious. In theory, the price of the truffles had been set before the fete, but it seemed there were still some interesting negotiations going on.

The faces of the truffle sellers were tense and the buyers and potential buyers were focused, intent on the truffles. This was business, not a party. Selling for about a euro a gram, the price we eventually paid as a winemaker-friend bargained for us, the sellers stood to make a fair bit of extra change at the fete. One older fellow with a younger woman bought a large plastic bag—maybe 25-30 truffles, which are slightly smaller and more irregularly shaped that your standard horse turd. They must have spent well over 1000 euros. They were both smiling.

After we bought our two token truffles I went back out into the sunshine and listened to the music again. The whole affair was very orderly. There were occasional outbursts of kissing on both cheeks. A very French fete. I would have liked to stay for another snack of churros and Muscat, but my friends were chilled by the tramontane, so we left.

As I walked past the churro stand, the gypsy was rolling a cigarette. Our eyes met briefly as he struck a match.

Only Connect

The truffle fete in the village of Lesquerde is held the second Sunday in February, which fell on the 8th this year.