Quietly harvesting the wild bounty

A couple of nights ago, I watched a splendid programme on Italian truffle hunters — beardy boys in knackered pickups, with dogs they loved more than their wives and children. Most of them were very old friends and family, happy to share their chianti, grappa and black olives — all jollity and la bella vita. Until, after a third grappa, one of the sons incautiously asked his father where he finds his truffles.

The atmosphere immediately turned from sunny to arctic. Though Italian families are famously close, paternal affection has limits and papa cannot be pushed to reveal his favourite truffle haunts — not until he’s on his deathbed and the priest has read the last rites.

This deep secrecy