This is a love story about a man and a woman, a pig called Mademoiselle and a mèrde-load of truffle. If you were a publisher or film producer I would be embarrassed to pitch this to you, but it’s all true—just ask my co-writer. My fungal collaborator is sitting next to me on the table, he is a rough diamond— black, slightly misshapen and with a few cuts on his skin. But he’s not bleeding, just exposing the sharp white veins that filigree his black, rather smelly flesh. I’m in love with him and it is his magnificent aroma that guides my hand as I dissect his Wagyu-esque contours. Black Perigord [tuber melanosporum—the Dom Perignon of truffles] have been in the news this month all over the country. From Tasmania to Manjimup in WA, the annual truffle harvest is in full swing. But as I said, this is a love story—no investment prospectus, no projected yields, no promises of a tax break—just passion, hard work and a love of the garden and the table. About forty years ago Heather, a young adventurous Australian nurse like many of her generation, embarks on a Greek ship for a working holiday in swinging London. On a break from nursing she finds herself having breakfast in a small café in Perigord, southwest France. She orders a truffle omelette and its memory will stay with her for the rest of her life. On returning to Australia she meets Bruce and after a whirlwind romance they marry. Bruce is a renowned engineer and his work takes them all over the world. It’s a fine marriage, with two talented children who from a very early age accompany them through a life full of the pleasures of the table. But after forty years, with the children following their own exciting careers, they decide all this travelling has to stop; finally a permanent place of one’s own beckons. A site is carefully selected that will express their true passion for the land. Somewhere to grow fruit, some nuts, some fine cattle. A place for the horses and perhaps some whimsy. Heather nostalgically names it Truffle Farm. The timing is perfect; a year later Heather reads that Black Truffle has been successfully cultivated in Tasmania so they order some trees from Tim Terry. They send for two types of oak—deciduous and the evergreen Holly—along with some hazelnuts, all inoculated with tuber melanosporum. This is the dawn of the truffle industry in Australia; not much is known about growing truffles but Heather is determined to have a go at it. The hazelnuts don’t make it due to an accident in the laboratory but with only a few technical tips from Terry in Tasmania they begin to plant the truffière on a rise with Bass Strait in the distance. The acidity of the soil means that a lot of lime is needed and they decide not to irrigate, rather putting their faith into nature. Patiently the property is developed; there are walnuts, gooseberries, Jerusalem artichokes, an orchard, citrus, a small vegetable garden along with the dogs and a couple of guinea fowl… a bucolic idyll begins to take shape. Over the next five years they tend the truffiere, dutifully applying lime each year but not doing much else. Nature is largely left to do its thing. Mademoiselle is found and slowly trained for her special work. The roots of the trees communicate harmoniously with the underground fungi and last year—six years after planting—they find the first truffles, about a half a kilo. They cook some and give lots away, quietly celebrating the result of their combined passion. Fast forward to about two weeks ago, Heather and Bruce have a bit of a look and unearth a kilo of magnificent specimens! When I visit I am amazed by the truffles and utterly charmed by the passion of their human servants. The following Tuesday I am introduced to Mademoiselle (French for Miss, as in Piggy), the trained chercheuse, and we are led by her magnificent nose into this perfumed garden. A couple of hours later, giggling like school children we descend back to the house to admire and clean our magnificent bounty. There are many types of black truffle, all very similar, and although our noses tell us these are genuine tuber melanosporum, we need an expert to help us positively identify them.
I met Teresa Lebel about ten years ago when we conducted fungi forays in the Otways. She is a senior mycologist at the Royal Botanical gardens in Melbourne, and probably the best-qualified person in Australia to give us an accurate scientific identification of the black odoriferous stuff which is now buried in a box of Arborio rice in the cool room. All the external characteristics look true to form, and when Teresa takes shavings from random samples the moment of truth is finally revealed. The spores, under 400 degrees of magnification, look like cells with three or more nuclei, the tiny hairs on the oval nuclei look like small rambutans, and indeed we have the real thing! It’s the shape of the hairs on the nuclei that are the final proof. Teresa asks for a sample as the Melbourne Herbarium does not have one in its collection. That young nurse’s dream has resulted in the first official Perigord black truffle specimen in the Melbourne Herbarium’s collection. I am planning to organise another date with Mademoiselle as soon as she’ll have me. They plan to supply local cooks who appreciate the flavour of these wonders of nature.
