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Travel

Into the Woods

By Brenda Fernandez Popritkin

A truffle hunt in Piedmont traces one of Italy’s most elusive ingredients from forest to table.

It usually starts in an elegant dining room. A server leans in and whispers: Fresh Alba truffles have arrived. The price is steep, but diners nod and happily commit. I’ve indulged myself. Truffles, with their unmistakable scent, are ceremoniously shaved over almost anything. But what is a truffle, anyway? Why is it so in demand and expensive? To answer, I traced the truffle to its source: Alba, a town in Piedmont that feels touched by magic.

Organized by Langhe Experience, a local operator specializing in truffle education, I spent the morning walking through the TartufLanghe headquarters, tasting products, and listening as Export Director, Veronica Giraudo, dismantled some of the biggest myths about truffles. For example, “Truffles are not cultivated,” she explains, “They are wild mushrooms shaped by soil, trees, and conditions that can only be encouraged, never controlled.” It’s a philosophy that feels closer to winemaking than agriculture.

Each tree, I am told, leaves its footprint. Oak trees dominate in Alba, especially for white truffles. Poplars grow quickly; beneath them, wildflowers bloom and truffles form. Hazelnut trees lean toward black truffles. Linden trees, “…lend a honeyed sweetness to the truffles found below them,” she says.

While local trattorias rely on what’s found day to day, Michelin-starred kitchens operate differently. “They don’t just ask for truffles,” Veronica explained. “They ask for specific things.” Some chefs request a single large specimen for a dramatic tableside moment; others want medium truffles, uniform in size, so they can be shaved evenly across services. TartufLanghe’s role is to translate unpredictability into something chefs can work with. In good years, the company buys aggressively, hand-cleans, and seals whole truffles for months or even years later. Planning is essential. “Like wine,” she says, “You cannot depend on only one harvest.”

The Method

Following the information-filled morning, I set out to the Località Catena Rossa for the first of three truffle hunts. Ahead, I spy a lightly sloped, sparsely wooded landscape where movement is easy, and sightlines are clear. This is truffle hunting at its simplest. Michele and Sara, our hunter guides, explain how dogs learn. Training begins at home, where truffles are hidden in the garden, so they learn to search by scent as puppies. Lady and Macchia (six and seven years old) are only allowed to eat any small truffles they find, reinforcing the reward. Later, handlers gradually teach them to stop eating and merely indicate the find. Over time, impulse turns into control and is refined through daily practice.

Both dogs run around, nose to the ground, stopping briefly throughout. Finally deciding on a specific spot, Macchia starts to dig rapidly as Michele approaches to assist with the search. They explain that black truffles tend to sit closer to the surface, roughly 8 to 12 inches underground. White truffles, especially in cold weather, can be buried as deep as nearly two feet below the surface, far beyond what any human could detect alone. Dogs do the real work, and humans learn to read the signs. Even small truffles are celebrated. Size, they insist, has little to do with quality. Restaurants may favor larger ones for show, but fragrance tells the real story.

The System

By late afternoon, the hunt shifts into Il Bosco dei Pensieri, an enclosed nature reserve in the Barolo Langa.

There, I meet Carlo and his seasoned dog, Gigi. Truffles, he begins to decipher, are sensitive to rainfall, temperature, and timing. “The chemical composition of the truffle is 80% water,” he said. “If we don’t have the right rain at the right moment of the season, everything changes.” He mentions that hunters speak of a “secret calendar” that truffles once followed, with certain forests producing in October, others in November, or others in December. But when autumn arrives late, or October runs warm, production suffers, that calendar is now harder to read.

Truffles depend on three elements to grow: the roots of specific trees, living spores beneath the soil, and limestone-rich earth that shapes aroma. “You can find a big truffle,” he asserts, “but without aroma, it is not good.” According to Carlo, growth happens underground over roughly 60 to 90 days. “We never know,” Carlo said. “Only the dog knows. This soil,” he details, pointing to the wet ground beneath our feet, “is what gives the smell.” Wildlife may eat them first, or other hunters may pass through unnoticed. “Maybe the biggest question is: how many truffles do we never find?”

Every trifolau (the local Piedmontese term for a truffle hunter) I met first arrived the same way: cars caked in dried mud, boots, and jackets to match. The community of licensed hunters is aging, Carlo mentions, with few young people willing to take on a job that demands solitude, patience, and obsession rather than steady income. For those who remain, truffle hunting is a calling. One that requires listening to nature. “If you hunt truffles only for money, it is a big mistake. This is a passion. For three months, you forget everything. Even your family.”

Instinct

Vittoria’s young presence in the dense forest area at the Santuario dei Piloni stands out. In a world where truffle hunting is still mostly a male legacy, handed down through generations, this is a rare sight. As I watch her guide the hunt, I also witness tradition evolve.

Her puppy, six-month-old Buddy, is eager and still learning, but he leads the way. In the dark, his movements matter more than explanation. Digging is done gently by hand once he signals a spot. The soil changes texture as they go deeper. When a white truffle finally emerges, it is small, round, and perfect. Once again, aroma reveals quality. The lesson is clear. The fog, the cold, and the darkness all sharpen awareness. Truffle hunting is about accepting the fact that humans have little control.

The System

By late afternoon, the hunt shifts into Il Bosco dei Pensieri, an enclosed nature reserve in the Barolo Langa.

There, I meet Carlo and his seasoned dog, Gigi. Truffles, he begins to decipher, are sensitive to rainfall, temperature, and timing. “The chemical composition of the truffle is 80% water,” he said. “If we don’t have the right rain at the right moment of the season, everything changes.” He mentions that hunters speak of a “secret calendar” that truffles once followed, with certain forests producing in October, others in November, or others in December. But when autumn arrives late, or October runs warm, production suffers, that calendar is now harder to read.

Truffles depend on three elements to grow: the roots of specific trees, living spores beneath the soil, and limestone-rich earth that shapes aroma. “You can find a big truffle,” he asserts, “but without aroma, it is not good.” According to Carlo, growth happens underground over roughly 60 to 90 days. “We never know,” Carlo said. “Only the dog knows. This soil,” he details, pointing to the wet ground beneath our feet, “is what gives the smell.” Wildlife may eat them first, or other hunters may pass through unnoticed. “Maybe the biggest question is: how many truffles do we never find?”

Every trifolau (the local Piedmontese term for a truffle hunter) I met first arrived the same way: cars caked in dried mud, boots, and jackets to match. The community of licensed hunters is aging, Carlo mentions, with few young people willing to take on a job that demands solitude, patience, and obsession rather than steady income. For those who remain, truffle hunting is a calling. One that requires listening to nature. “If you hunt truffles only for money, it is a big mistake. This is a passion. For three months, you forget everything. Even your family.”

Instinct

Vittoria’s young presence in the dense forest area at the Santuario dei Piloni stands out. In a world where truffle hunting is still mostly a male legacy, handed down through generations, this is a rare sight. As I watch her guide the hunt, I also witness tradition evolve.

Her puppy, six-month-old Buddy, is eager and still learning, but he leads the way. In the dark, his movements matter more than explanation. Digging is done gently by hand once he signals a spot. The soil changes texture as they go deeper. When a white truffle finally emerges, it is small, round, and perfect. Once again, aroma reveals quality. The lesson is clear. The fog, the cold, and the darkness all sharpen awareness. Truffle hunting is about accepting the fact that humans have little control.

From Forest to Plate

All three hunts produced small to medium black and white truffles. Back in the dining room, what once felt like a splurge now feels like a privilege. Because somewhere, hours earlier or days before, a dog followed his instinct, and a muddied trifolau knelt in the cold soil to extract the elusive ingredient. The truffle carries the forest with it. Once you’ve experienced the hunt, you recognize and honor it. And to truly understand it, you have to go there.

The International Alba White Truffle Fair takes place from October to December, surrounded by hunts, markets, and meals. As Carlo mentioned during our adventure, “Come to Alba, eat truffles here, and understand them where they belong.” I completely agree.

Photos are courtesy of SOBEWFF.

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