Aria has found a black truffle. Giovanni turns over the warty gem in his palm. It is the size of a Ping-Pong ball. He smooths a thumb over the knobbled landscape of its surface. Tiny holes tell him that a burrowing mouse has nibbled it here and there, and who could blame it? He lifts the truffle to his nose and sniffs its magic. First, he registers the coat of damp, wormy dirt it wears, but then comes that animalistic horseradish and funk of good grana cheese. Leathery, nutty, yeasty, it has his heart racing, this naughty little oyster of the soil. And because the truffle is at its freshest,
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