truffles

And truffle season it is.

When I took my usual route home through the Naschmarkt, surveying the latest and greatest, the gorgeous little buds of dirt, masquerading as new potatoes, stood front and center. The closest I will come is this photo I thought to myself. Little did I know, the reservation for our collective birthday fest would prove me wrong.

Classic Viennese somehow, things not being precisely as they appear, this small place is not a restaurant, but a cigar and wine tasting spot. From the outside, unless you were shopping for a bottle of wine, you might never stop. For now, I am living above this secret place.

It reminded me of one of my favorite, highly instructional, stories from Mom and Hal’s Italy adventures. This one coincided with peak truffle season. They spent a glorious week in a single hotel where food and place converged conveniently and many if not the majority of their meals were had right there in the hotel.

And at each of these occasions, truffles sat in a basket, inviting, overwhelming as they do with their seductive aroma. (even in the cigar place, thick foggy smoke was no competitor I am happy to report) Politely at first, my mother and Hal helped themselves, then perhaps, even indulged. Why not try them on our eggs this morning too? A truffle extravaganza, for one week.

When my mother sat outside in their rental car waiting for Hal to emerge from checking out, she continued to wait. And wait. Over half an hour passed, still no Hal. As he approached the car, my mother told me, he face was greenish white, like a barely standing man.

“What happened? Where have you been? I’ve been sitting here all this time,” she stewed. Well, said Hal, I’m afraid our truffle bill has exceeded our hotel bill.