Tartufo

by Kira Jane Buxton

There is only one gourmet comestible that can transfix him this way. The white truffle. To Chef Umberto Micucci, success is the smell of a truffle. Woodsy reek. Garlic gas. Sweat on leather. An earthen umami cologne. Naughty sulfuric skunk of the finest marijuana. But what he smells now is knocking his socks off. A bomb has detonated in his cucina, diffusing the most intoxicating lust potion. He has never smelled any truffle quite like the little lumps he imagines are waiting for him in that odd bundle Giovanni is cradling. And—what luck. Lately, with all the dry weather and changing climate, truffles have been stunted and strange, most offerings reminiscent of dehydrated Glis glis spleens. Piattelli—little plates—they call them. The value of truffles has skyrocketed in recent years. The pungent little treasures in Giovanni’s bundle might actually be worth their lofty price tag.