Under France: The Small World of Truffles

The year has begun exceptionally well. The weeks after Christmas can feel like a sinkhole – holiday enthusiasms turn ugly upon opening the January bills, dismay builds up over unmet goals, and then I am sucked into torpor until the crocuses pierce the soil. Not this year though. The dirt is delivering a whiff of good things to come.

There hasn’t been a single doubt in my mind about my decision to move to southwest France, I enjoy the rural landscape, the layers and layers of human history in the limestone soil, the work of hands that have built stone towns, and holy places. Most of all, the slower way of life allows me to observe and engage with others the way I like to, one by one. The space between me and you hums loudly without the distractions of media, traffic, and the pressure to be more, better, and faster.

Back to the dirt. It’s truffle season here in the Perigord, the traditional name for the Dordogne department. So, starting right where I am, which is a major philosophical tenet of mine, I’m stepping away from the cozy fireplace and heading out into the cool, misty days to investigate. These black fungus that grow into tubers amongst the roots of oak trees, are a highlight of the winter season in these rural communities. World renowned and expensive, the hunting of them can be a big source of income to a cavagiste, a truffle hunter, in the know. Personal connection is vital around here, so I’m thrilled to go out next week with Monsieur F, who wants to share his knowledge with me, but warns that this is a lousy year for the black gems.

After several trips to wholesale markets in the area, I’m beginning to see the microeconomic climate of the black truffle of Perigord. The bell sounds and the buyers approach the sellers, assorted locals with little baskets in front of them. This week at Lalbenque, in the neighboring Lot department, there may have been forty of them, some with only several nuggets, to a couple fellows whose burgeoning paniers of top quality truffles probably paid their entire rent for the month.

After bantering and sniffing, an understanding takes place across the table, with a whispered agreement on price, and a touch of the knuckles. When the bell rings half an hour later, signifying the end of the market, the sellers take their truffles to be weighed by the official from the syndicat, the union. The buyer observes the scale. Presuming the weight is the same as advertised, the buyer presents his handwritten card with all amounts listed, pays the seller, and takes the treasure in a brown paper bag, off to pleasure and profit.

Interesting to me is that this transaction is not taxed. France takes every opportunity to tax life here, so I was surprised and asked the man next to me about this unusual situation. I am getting used to the look, the one that wonders what kind of idiot I am, as he explains, “But, look, they have already paid taxes on their land, so they do not need to pay again.” Hmmm, property taxes in France are really low compared to the US, and both the wholesaler and the buyer are going to make huge profits. A missed opportunity for the government is under their noses, but, if this détente were to change, there would surely be a revolution, so the truffle market stays the same.

A great deal stays the same down here in southwest France, which gives me a chance to learn slowly, the only way I know how. However, climate change, the cost of living, and other macro factors are moving in, so I feel an urgency to get outside, even on a cold January day, to look for fungus in the microcosm beneath my feet. I'll be back with the dirt. A bientôt!