Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (9 page)

  Sensible thoughts like whether we could afford to take on such a project only fleetingly entered our heads. Instead, we sat down on a daily basis and drooled over pictures of cast-iron doors, distressed kitchens and antique baths. We annotated the plans – a larger opening here, a utility room there – and took them off to the
mairie
for approval. We visited ongoing
chantiers
(construction sites) and watched artisans create gleaming polished concrete floors, recessed alcoves and drystone walls. Somehow we convinced ourselves that we were special and that we'd manage to build the house within budget and on time.

  Our weekends were spent raking
vide greniers
for furniture for our new house. We fooled ourselves that the prices quoted were so cheap, it didn't matter if the purchase fell through. However, a quick inventory of several days' hard shopping showed that all the small items had added up. Our cellar was crammed with rash purchases such as: an old sewing table (in need of repair), an eel catching net (we thought we would convert this into a light), a wicker table and chairs (believed valuable, later identified in an IKEA catalogue), a set of large glass bowls with tapered necks (to decorate new kitchen), a fireguard (so cheap we had to purchase it even if it was the wrong size) and finally a set of truffle digging tools.

  Other than this final impulsive purchase, we'd given little thought to the truffles or the practicalities of finding them. A little further investigation had shown that the
borie
and the
truffière
formed part of the
garrigue,
or wild countryside, but as Eric had explained the current owner harvested the truffles, so why not us?

  As a result, given the price per kilo of the black diamonds, there was an unspoken assumption that we'd probably, rather reluctantly, get a dog, but no more than that. At least my grasp of truffle technicalities was helped by an article in
La Provence
about the Ménerbes
mairie
. Rather than devoting funds to such mundane things as rubbish collection, the mayor had decided to plant a communal
truffière
, gambling that the way to secure re-election was through his constituents' stomachs.

  The article went on to explain how truffles were a fungal disease carried by some oak trees, rather like you or I might have athlete's foot, but tastier. The truffles were attached by a gossamer-thin thread to the trees and grew by sucking nutrients from the oak. Take an acorn from a diseased oak, plant it, and the chances were that you would one day have a truffle tree. Plant lots of acorns and you'd end up with a
truffière
, just like the one we were going to purchase.

  Our buyers' ardour couldn't be dented. Local records showed the
terrain
had previously been used as landfill for the village clay works and Eric advised us to consult engineers about reinforced foundations. This was a startlingly honest revelation, even romantically dressed by Eric's story of rows of women sitting in the shade of the trees casting roof tiles on their ample thighs. Yet instead of heeding the warning that the clay soil would swallow any normal construction like a horror-movie child snatched into hell, we discussed names for our house. To stabilise our proposed humble three-bedroom family house we'd apparently have to build the type of concrete foundations more commonly used for office blocks in earthquake zones and yet, such was our optimistic state of mind, we settled on the name 'Le Paradou'. To the English ear the word sounded like paradise, hence our choice, but in fact a
paradou
is something much more prosaic: a type of watermill.

  Eventually the misty-eyed courtship came to an end and financial reality impinged. I asked Eric for help and soon a plague of advisors were on the phone trying to sell us mortgages, life insurance and even pensions. Our application headed off to all the respectable banks and a coterie of dodgy, far-flung institutions. The latter offered ridiculously low interest rates teamed with default clauses so punitive they could have been drafted by the mafia. The results, when they came back, were all the same – unsuitable for finance. We might have only missed out by the tiniest margin, but it didn't matter – there was no more money.

  The realisation that the project wasn't going to happen brought us back to our senses. Like patients waking from a coma we shook our heads, looked around and demanded to know what had happened over the preceding weeks. Life gradually returned to normal. Even the news that Manu had filed for planning permission to develop more of the farmhouse and that we would effectively be living on a building site didn't jump-start the purchase of Le Paradou. We sold wine, we looked after our child and we barely gave a thought to the plot we had loved so much. Then Delphine phoned. 'There's someone I'd like you to meet. Take him to lunch, he's a gourmand.'

  The person in question was Philippe Raimbaux and as Delphine explained he was a retired mortgage broker who still had excellent relationships with all the local banks. His passion was truffles. During his working life he'd discovered just how hard
truffières
were to finance. Harvesting the black diamond is a cash business and there are rarely accurate records of income for banks to lend on. And so in his retirement, through his contacts, Philippe had chosen to ease the path of select loans in return for a small payment in his own favourite currency – truffles. Delphine finished her summary with a warning: 'And a word of advice: choose a good restaurant – for Philippe it makes all the difference. And know your subject – you're going to have to convince him you can find the truffles to pay his fee.'

  Selecting a venue perplexed us for a while. The south of France was full of great chefs who had no idea how to run a restaurant. Recently a new bistro had opened in a nearby village. Miraculous creations emerged from the kitchen, plates were dressed as sexily as Carla Bruni, and the resulting festival of flavours was enough to turn even a swinging local's head away from the nearest brunette. Two months later, though, due to soaring overheads, poisoned customers and the restaurant manager having had an affair with the chef's wife, the restaurant was out of business. Mortgage brokers, we reasoned, were reassured by stability and track record, and on this basis Tanya and I agreed to discount flashy newcomers. We also ruled out the established Michelin-starred restaurants – at nearly €100 a menu we'd hardly be displaying financial prudence, even if sampling lavender-infused ice cream would send us all home with smiles on our faces.

  Philippe was based in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, the uber-chic capital of the Les Alpilles area, and, trying to make his job as easy as possible, we finally decided to travel to him and chose the friendly local brasserie – Le Bistrot Découverte. The restaurant had one of the best cellars in the area and we'd met the owner Claude through our wine business. Like a fine sauce, the menu at the bistro had been reduced to a series of intense yet simple flavours.

  We met to discuss our loan one sunny lunchtime in March, on the type of day that makes the locals sigh that their home is a corner of paradise, while the second homeowners hide their smug satisfaction behind a pair of oversize designer shades. The terrace was filled with early diners sipping on the remains of their red wine, toying with their coffees and showing absolutely no sign of vacating their tables. On the road opposite, the driver of a Porsche with Parisian number plates struggled to wedge his car into a small space. In the end he casually shunted a battered Citroën out of the way.

  Our reservation was inside, but since Philippe had yet to arrive, we decided to wait for a place on the terrace. The more longingly we looked at the tables the more the residents – it was as if they'd set up home – reclined, and nonchalantly soaked up the sun. Even a crying and clearly hungry Elodie failed to dislodge the patrons. Bills arrived, but unlike the customers they didn't lounge indolently around. Credit card machines – which in France you wait for as long as for a train in England – were pressed into slightly unwilling hands and we had our table.

  Like students swotting for an exam we pulled out note cards and did some last-minute revision, staining the cards with baby food as we read through them. The last thing we wanted to appear was ignorant but now some of my jottings from the night before appeared totally irrelevant. The fact that Madame Pompadour relied on a diet of truffles to heighten her libido in order that she could assuage the sexual demands of Louis XV was hardly the type of titbit to casually drop into a conversation. Worse still was the rumour that some of the Marquis de Sade's most notorious orgies followed truffle-laced banquets. Philippe could easily get the impression I was more interested in finding my inner sadomasochist than in the construction of a family home. Listing the different varieties of truffles – Burgundy, Perigord, Italian white, Oregon, even Kalahari – was surely safer ground. As was a probing question on the catastrophic effects of the two world wars on French truffle production: rather than passing on the secrets of the trade on their deathbeds, truffle hunters died on the battlefields, taking their knowledge with them.

  I flicked to the next card and tried its contents on Tanya:

  'According to the prophet Muhammad, truffles were a gift from Allah.'

  Before she could respond Philippe arrived.

  'And Emperor Nero called them the food of the gods,' he interjected as he sat down, shaking our hands enthusiastically and sliding his briefcase – which was of the battered academic type – under the table. He was dressed in a checked jacket and open-necked shirt and looked more like a university professor than a banker. His hair was grey but still thick and his tan the leather of a man who spent the summer in the south and the winter in the Alps. Menus and glasses of house wine – a lazy Côtes du Rhone – were placed before us.

  'Isn't she beautiful?' said Philippe as we slid Elodie under the table for what we hoped would be a long sleep. A minute of gurgling protests followed, then some high-pitched screaming, which provoked disapproving clucks from nearby tables, but then finally there was silence.

  'So, what are an English couple doing hunting for truffles?' asked Philippe.

  'Where shall we begin?'

  Philippe shrugged and relaxed back in his chair. 'We've plenty of time, we can start with where you were born if you like.' There was genuine interest in his voice and over the course of the lunch we found ourselves telling our story. How we left England determined to experience a better quality of life. How we built a wine business around rosé and how it had expanded to encompass wines from all over France. We described the little farmhouse we lived in and how with a growing family we felt that it was time to move on.

  The food was perfect, complementing rather than overpowering the conversation. Starters were simple, but the quality immaculate. Thin slices of Iberian ham from a pig which had grazed exclusively on a diet of acorns were nutty and – perhaps the sun was getting to me at this point – almost truffley in flavour. The smoked salmon was from Scotland; it was fleshy, as peaty as a good whisky, and served with chive cream and toasted bread. I'd expected Philippe to eat with the kind of mechanical fastidiousness I've observed in 'foodies', who tend to concentrate intently as they dissect dishes. Far from it; instead, he crammed great mouthfuls onto his fork, eating with the hunger of a starved dog, and calling for more bread to mop up traces of olive oil.

  The early signs were good. Philippe nodded approvingly as the plates were taken away and then searched for his briefcase under the table. 'The tests for your trees have come through. You must remember they are indicative rather than conclusive. However, it seems possible that you may find truffles.'

  Tanya and I smiled triumphantly at each other and I wondered whether this might be the moment to order a little champagne.

  'However, I'm worried that you may not be the right type of people. You've never had a dog, you grew up in the city.'

  'But, but, but…' Tanya and I began to protest simultaneously.

  Philippe waved our resistance away. 'It's a secretive, unpredictable, sometimes dangerous business – even the professionals who come from generations of truffle hunters struggle to maintain a constant income. Are you sure you want to do this?'

  'We're sure,' answered Tanya.

  'We're sure,' I added supportively.

  'Tell me about your village.' Philippe changed the subject. 'How have the residents reacted to foreigners?'

  Tanya chatted away about the warm welcome we'd received while I fidgeted uncomfortably as we waited for the main course. There was the loan to worry about and also my choice –
le steak tartare
. I'd followed Ange's advice and ordered the dish again at this, the first opportunity, but just the thought of the pain I'd endured made my stomach cramp.

  I needn't have been concerned. Rather than the cheap mince which had so recently poisoned my whole system, my steak, when it arrived, had been entirely chopped by hand into the finest slivers, with the seasoning already mixed in. On top, however, were parboiled quails' eggs: salmonella on a fork, I thought, as I turned them into the meat. After each mouthful I waited for a reaction – the first painful tightening of my stomach that might have indicated the contractions were about to begin again. Instead, there was just the bliss of sitting in the sunshine, munching on a perfectly seasoned meal and knowing that I had successfully conquered a fear. Philippe and Tanya both had
faux-filet
.

  
'Frites,'
Philippe explained as he tucked into the juicy sirloin and the side order of golden-brown chips, 'have to be tended to and nurtured. In a busy kitchen it's all too easy to turn out something with the texture of an old leather jacket.'