In continental France (as opposed to the French Antilles, battered by tropical storms), autumn arrives as autumn should: bright, blustery days, cool nights, alternating with periods of damp and rain. Perfect weather for mushroom hunting in a region like le Perche, where there are over 1,000 different varieties hidden among the undergrowth of the forests that have given this region its name.
Perche, I learned on the site of the regional park (http://www.parc-naturel-perche.fr/en) comes from an Indo-European root word, perk, which has nothing to do with the English word spelled the same. “Perk” applies to oak trees and is both the root of the Latin word for oak, quercus, and for the region where I have my home.
This time of year, in oak forests all over le Perche, men and women not afraid to get their feet wet are out searching for mushrooms.
At my village café, where I’ve earned the right to stand at the counter with the regulars and pay a round of drinks from time to time, I’ve been told it’s a record year. Why, all you have to do is plop down on the ground (if you’re ready to get the seat of your pants wet), plunge your hands towards the earth, and begin harvesting.
I’ve benefited from this abundance. Just yesterday a village friend gave me a bag of “trompettes de la mort,” trumpets of death—not a very promising name for something you’re supposed to eat. These dull, velvety black mushrooms look like the trumpets angels play to announce the Apocalypse. Their form is also very close to that of a highly toxic South American flower that bears that very name: Angel’s trumpet.
When receiving a gift of wild mushrooms in France, considered a great delicacy, one is supposed to first ooh and aah while caressing and gently sniffing a specimen. That done, the next step is to wax nostalgic about memorable mushroom meals. Ah! Ce bon petit rôti de veau aux girolles—ah! That delicious little roast of veal in girolle mushroom sauce. Finally, after more profuse thanks, one declares what one will do with one’s own little treasure: a creamy soup, a sauce for pasta, un bon petit rôti de porc (pork roast), or, better yet, an omelet.
I held my bag, I said my thanks, all the while silently remembering my own experiences with woodland mushrooms. Memories took me all the way back to my first summer in France. I met a man in a café in a little village in the mountains above the Côte d’Azur. He invited me to accompany him to a dinner at the home of friends.
Always ready for new adventures, I accepted. That evening, we drank a Beaujolais wine called “Pisse-dru” (the first word I think readers can figure out, the second means heavy or abundant) and ate wild mushrooms sautéed in garlic and butter. There was some oohing and aahing, but there was also some concern. One of the guests was not sure these mushrooms were real the thing.
“Fausses chanterelles” (a variety of wild mushroom), he declared. Not poisonous, no, but very hard to digest.
The other French guests, always on the lookout for good argument and debate, begged to disagree and defended the honor of the host serving us this gastronomic meal. Better than the original, more flavorful, they declared as they swallowed generous mouthfuls.
I had no opinion, at least none I wanted to share. I was doing my best to wash the mushrooms down with gulps of Pisse-dru. They were gooey, downright slimy. It was like eating pan-fried slugs (which, also known as escargots, are another French delicacy).
That was not a good evening. I had, and still have, the American’s fear of wild mushrooms coming from anywhere but supermarkets or specialty shops. Leaving the dinner party, I felt nauseous. I wondered what would come next. Luckily, the answer was nothing. I went home, refusing the gentleman’s offer to check out his little villa overlooking the sea, and went to bed.
I also have a Schuylkill County experience to relate. Once, at my mother’s home in Pottsville, my sisters and I looked on as my former French brother-in-law made himself an omelet with morel mushrooms he had found in the woods behind our house. The morel, or morille, as it is known in French, is the Cadillac of mushrooms, and it sells for a Cadillac price.
Oh là là! My brother-in-law was so excited. Terrified, my mother, my sisters and I feared he would die before our very eyes.
But he didn’t, probably because the French know about mushrooms. They track them in secret forest groves whose location they reveal to none but their most trusted friends. Picking up the scent, they are like human beagles sensing, not beast or blood, but a musty, earthy smell that, for the French, has the power of an aphrodisiac.
More prudent hunters carry a guide, beginners accompany the more experienced, and when truly in doubt, it is possible to take one’s find to the local pharmacy. In France, pharmacists are supposed to have the know-how to decide if, eating your mushrooms, you will live or die.
As I’ve been writing this article, I’ve been busy digesting, a cult-like activity in France that requires time, attention and care. I’ve also been listening to my body for any gurgles or untoward movements of the digestive tract. So far, so good. That means the omelet with sautéed trumpet-of-death mushrooms I ate for lunch is going down just fine.
I accepted the gift. I didn’t ask any questions about whether the mushrooms were safe or not. I have complete confidence in the friend who offered me them. I also listened carefully to his wife, who explained what I was supposed to do with them once I got home:
I filled a bowl with water, added some vinegar, and washed them several times. That done, I carefully drained them and just as carefully laid them out, one by one, on a tea towel. By morning they were dry. By lunchtime, I was ready to give them a try.
I sautéed them in butter and garlic. Then I folded them into an omelet I ate with fresh baguette, salad from my garden, and a glass of Burgundy wine.
Who knows? A few more experiences like this and I’ll be out hunting mushrooms myself.
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