Summary

The author, Janice McDonald, shares a personal experience of dining on truffled fettuccini in France during truffle season, expressing a somewhat underwhelmed reaction to the famously luxurious ingredient.

Abstract

In her article "LIVING IN FRANCE: Did I Swoon Over My Truffled Fettuccini?" Janice McDonald recounts her recent lunch experience in a French village restaurant, where she tried the much-hyped truffle-infused pasta. Despite the peak truffle season and the local festivities celebrating the prized fungi, McDonald finds the truffles less impressive than expected, suggesting that even a modest addition of smoked paprika might have enhanced the dish more than the truffles themselves. She humorously compares her lack of reaction to the ecstatic responses truffles are said to evoke, likening them to the famous diner scene in "When Harry Met Sally." The author also educates readers on the truffle's allure, its high cost, and the peculiar fact that female pigs are attracted to the scent of truffles due to a hormone similar to one found in males. Despite the underwhelming truffle experience, McDonald appreciates the overall ambiance of the restaurant, the view of the vineyards, and the pleasure of living in France, concluding that truffles might be slightly overrated but her life there is not.

Opinions

The author does not find the truffle-infused fettuccini as tantalizing as its reputation suggests.
McDonald implies that the truffle's fame might be exaggerated, especially for the more affordable varieties.
She suggests that additional seasoning, like smoked paprika, could have improved her fettuccini more than the truffles.
The author humorously downplays the erotic associations of truffles, contrasting her experience with the orgiastic behavior of female pigs when they detect truffles.
McDonald values the overall dining experience, including the setting and company, over the specific truffle ingredient.
She acknowledges that her truffle experience might have been different with a higher quality, albeit more expensive, variety of truffle.
The article conveys a sense of contentment and gratitude for the author's life in France, truffle sentiments notwithstanding.

LIVING IN FRANCE: Did I Swoon Over My Truffled Fettuccini?

Did nearby diners glance surreptitiously as I writhed and moaned? Did someone whisper, “I’ll have some of what she’s having?’

Well no.

It was a perfectly pleasant lunch, but a few sprinkles of smoked paprika would have probably added more to the fettuccini than the shavings of ‘black gold.’

So what’s wrong with me? Why did I not feel the allure?

January is peak truffle season in France. Truffle markets, fairs and festivities everywhere. Eight in the next week or so all within a forty-five minutes drive of my village.

Restaurants advertise special truffle menus— truffles shaved on eggs, folded in pasta, dusted over Pommes de Terre. Stand still long enough and you’ll probably be sprinkled too.

Truffles rank among the world’s most expensive foods. In the one thousand euro per kilo and up range, depending on size, quality and type. They’re called black gold for a reason.

All sorts of adjectives are attached to truffles: exotic, mysterious, tantalising.

Erotic?

Apparently.

Mention truffles and there are those who raise their eyes to the heavens, clutch their chests and moan softly.

Think, Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.

I picked a thin slice of truffle from my pasta and sniffed.

Erotic did not come to mind.

Female pigs are said to feel otherwise. Truffles contain a hormone called androstenol. Humans have small levels of it. . . male pigs have a lot more. This may explain why truffle farmers, who once used female pigs to sniff out truffles, claimed that on catching the scent, the old girls would go into orgiastic frenzies of digging.

The way I was hoping to feel about my plate of fettuccine aux truffes.

My partner, who has had more truffle experience than I, suggested that the truffle shaved onto our pasta was probably the relatively inexpensive black winter truffle and may not have been of the best quality. Anything better would have been out of our price range.

Really though, it was fine. The restaurant windows look out over the vineyards, now deep in winter slumber, the low Cevennes hills in the distance, a cornflower blue sky. We shared a bottle of excellent local wine, and a slice of Tarte Tatin — unadorned with truffles.

While I suspect truffles, at least the affordable ones, are perhaps ever so slightly overrated, I thought, as I constantly do, how lucky and how happy I am to live in France.

No orgiastic frenzy though. At least not in public.

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