Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

There is no such thing as a dedicated truffle hound. It all depends on the dog's instinct and the owner's training. A dog that performs well under one owner may not necessarily perform at the same level with others. Catch that dog! (1) A friend of mine who lives in London occasionally tells me important international news that is not in the Journal de Provence.At one point, he sent a disturbing newspaper clipping from The Times.This report exposed a heinous industry in France, and it almost hit the French people like a knife. A gang of scoundrels import white truffles from Italy—sometimes disparagingly called “industrial truffles”—and dye their skins the color of black truffles with a walnut-colored dye.All foodies know that the black truffle is much tastier than its white brother, and the price is naturally much more expensive.I think the reporter of "Time" magazine must have underestimated the price of truffles. He quoted 400 francs per kilogram. This price will definitely cause a panic buying trend in Paris's Fauchon Gourmet Restaurant 11.There, I saw with my own eyes that truffles were offered as gems in the window, and the sky-high price of 7,000 francs per kilogram was offered.

But money is a small matter, the problem is the nature of this crime.The French have always claimed to be the world champions in the food industry, but they have been fooled by such fake famous brands, their taste buds have been deceived, and their pockets have been emptied.To make matters worse, this counterfeit was not yet a second-rate product in the country, but was concocted from Italian waste.Italy, oh my! I once heard a French dude conclusively conclude Italian food with one slur - there is nothing to eat but pasta.Yet hundreds, if not thousands, of Italian outlaws had penetrated the learned maws of the French under the most inept disguises.This kind of humiliation is enough to make a man of seven feet tear up foie gras.

At this time, I was reminded of Aaron, who promised to take me to collect truffles at the foot of Mount Ventoux, and show off his miniature pig skills by the way.But when I called him, he said that the crop had been poor due to the summer drought, and combined with the failure of the mini-pig training experiments, the pigs were not suitable for this kind of work.Still, if we're interested, he has some truffles, small in size but good in quality.So we made an appointment at Apple Village, and he made an appointment with another guy to talk about dogs there. There is a café in the village of Epe that is always packed with truffle peddlers on market days.While waiting for customers to show up, they pass the time by cheating at cards or bragging about how to sell 150 grams of truffles mixed with earth to a passing Parisian for a good price.They carried folding scales in their pockets, and old-fashioned Opinaire 12s with wooden handles, which were used to cut small slits in the truffles to prove to people that the inside was also black.The contents of the old linen bag on the table gave off an earthy rot smell mixed with the smell of coffee and black tobacco in the shop.They sipped rose wine and whispered to each other.

While I was waiting for Aaron, I saw two people squatting drinking, with their heads tightly together, looking around after a few words.One of them took out a flattened Pico, wrote something on the palm of his hand, held it out for the other to see, then spat on his hand, carefully erasing the evidence.What exactly did he write?New price per kilo of truffles?The password to the bank vault next door?Still a warning?Let alone, there is a man with glasses staring at us! Aaron came and everyone in the café was looking at him as they had been looking at me.I felt as if I was going to do something illegal and dangerous, not just to buy ingredients for omelets.

I brought a clipping from Time Magazine, too, but it was old news to Aaron.He heard about it from a friend who lived in Perigord, and some honest truffle wholesalers there were outraged and doubts were planted in the hearts of their customers. Aaron is also in Epe Village this time to buy a new truffle hound.He knew the owner of the dog, but not very well, so the deal would take some time.The other party offered a solid price of 20,000 francs. Therefore, it is not enough to act on credit alone. Some field exercises must be arranged for the dog, the age of the dog must be confirmed, the dog's physical fitness and sense of smell must be tested, and so on.

I asked about the mini-pigs, and Aaron shrugged and ran his index finger across his throat.In the end, he said, dogs were the only solution unless someone could live with the inconvenience of a pig's large size.But finding the right dog, one worth the check, is not an easy task. There is no such thing as a dedicated truffle hound.Most of the truffle-hunting dogs I've seen are small, plain looking, barking dogs that seem to have had hunting dogs in their bloodlines generations ago.Aaron himself has an old Alsatian dog, which was very capable when he was young, but it all depends on the dog's instincts and the owner's training. A dog that does well under one owner may not be able to perform at the same level with others .Aaron remembered something and smiled. "There's a famous story..." I filled his glass and he continued.

According to a man who once had a truffle hound in St Didier, his dog could often find truffles that other dogs could not.Throughout the winter, when other hunters could only bring down a handful or a dozen truffles from the mountains, this man from Saint Didier returned to the cafe with a large backpack full of truffles.The dog was a marvel, and the owner never stopped bragging about his little "Napoleon," so named because of his priceless nose. Many people coveted Napoleon, but every time they asked for a price, they were rejected by the dog owner.Until one day, a man came to the cafe and put on the table four stacks of banknotes that were tightly tied and as thick as bricks-a total of forty thousand francs.The price was so attractive that the dog owner was hesitant at first, but after some struggle, he accepted it.In this way, Napoleon followed the new master away.

Napoleon did not find a single truffle for the rest of the season.Furious, the new owner took it back to the cafe and demanded a refund.The old owner told him to go back and learn how to find truffles properly.Such a mentally retarded man does not deserve to have a dog as good as Napoleon.Next, other ugly words came out one by one, but the matter of refunding the money is out of the question. The new owner went to Avilon to find a lawyer, and the answer he got was the consistent tone of lawyers. This case is still in a gray area, and there is no precedent to follow.In none of the well-documented cases in French history have the malfeasance of dogs been involved.There is no doubt that this dispute can only be settled by a learned judge.

After several months of negotiations, the court summoned both parties to appear in court.Your Honor was a man of duty, and to make sure all parties involved in the case were present, he sent an officer to arrest the dog and bring him into court as a key witness. We have no way of knowing whether the presence of the dog on the witness stand helped the judge decide the case, but his final verdict was as follows: Napoleon returned it to its old owner, but the old owner must return half of the money from the sale of the dog, and the remaining half It is used to compensate for the loss caused by the absence of the dog some time ago.

Reunited with its owner, Napoleon moved from San Didier to a village north of Carpentras.Two years later, an almost identical case was reported again, only this time the money involved had risen because of inflation.Napoleon and his master did it again. But there is one problem I can't figure out.If the dog was such a good truffle finder, why would his owner sell him?Even if he always ends up keeping the dog and half the money every time he goes to court, wouldn't he make more money by putting him to work? Haha, says Aaron, you're like everyone else thinking that Napoleon really found that bag of truffles he brought to the cafe.

Is not it? Of course not, those truffles are kept in the refrigerator and are only shown once or twice a week.The dog couldn't find pork at the butcher shop, and its nose was made of wood. Aaron drank the wine in his glass. "Never buy a dog in a cafe unless you've seen it with your own eyes." He looked at his watch. "I still have time for another drink, how about you?" "No problem!" I said, does he have any other stories? "You're a writer and you're supposed to like this story," he said. "This story happened many years ago, but I've heard it's true." There was a farmer who had a piece of land some distance from his home. It was not big, less than two hectares, but it was covered with old oak trees.Every winter, the roots of the oak tree grew a lot of truffles, enough for him to live comfortably without working for the second half of the year.His pigs don't have to look hard at all, and year after year, the truffles always grow in the same position as last year.It's almost like picking banknotes under a tree.God is merciful, let him have something to support when he gets old. One morning the farmer noticed, for the first time in his life, that the soil had been turned under the tree, and you can imagine his annoyance.Something must have visited the night before, a dog, perhaps, or a stray pig.Going a little further, he found that there were stamped out cigarette butts in the soil. It was a fashionable filter cigarette, definitely not the kind he smoked. Of course, it could not be left by some stray pig. What people worry about! Catch that dog! (2) As he walked from tree to tree, the panic in his heart escalated.He found more turned earth, and some of the stones had fresh scratches—marks only left when picking truffles. It certainly wasn't, and couldn't have been, his neighbors, every single one of whom he'd known since childhood.It must be an outsider, someone who didn't know that the treasure belonged to him. But he is a reasonable person, and he admits that it is really impossible for outsiders to judge whether the land is private property or not.Walls and signs were too expensive, and he never thought they would be necessary, his land was his, everyone knew it.But it is clear that times have changed and strangers have entered the mountains.That afternoon, he drove to the nearest town and bought a bunch of signs that read "Private Property, No Entry."In addition, to be on the safe side, three or four of them had the words "There are vicious dogs inside" written on them.He and his wife stayed busy until dark before nailing up signs around the land. The farmer breathed a sigh of relief as the days passed with calm weather and no fresh traces of the intruders picking truffles.This was an unintentional mistake, although he once asked, if a person didn't do it intentionally, why did he choose to come out to pick truffles in the middle of the night? Then the tragedy happened again.The signs were useless, his land had been invaded again, and God knows how much black gold had been smuggled out of the ground in the dark of the moon.This behavior can no longer be explained by ignorance.It must be a villain deliberately stealing truffles. Under the cover of night, he shamelessly plundered the old man's only source of income to make huge profits. That evening the farmer and his wife had a serious discussion about the matter as they sat in the kitchen over soup.Of course they can call the police.But since truffles, or at least the money you can make selling them, don't officially exist, it might not be wise to alert the authorities.The police will question the value of the stolen items, and it is better not to publicize personal privacy like this.Moreover, the official punishment for stealing truffles is at best sent to prison, and there is no way to get back the thousands of ill-gotten gains hidden in the pockets of thieves. So the couple decides to find tougher but more satisfying ways to get justice.The husband went to his two neighbors for advice and they knew what to do to fix the problem. They promised to help him.So, in the following long cold nights, the three of them stood guard under the oak tree with shotguns in their hands, and staggered home at dawn-they would drink to keep out the cold at night, so they were a little drunk in the morning.Finally one night, when dark clouds rolled in to cover the moon and a cold northwest wind blew on the faces of the three, they saw the lights of the car.A car stopped on a dirt road 200 meters downhill. The engine died, the lights went out, and the doors opened and closed softly.The sound of someone talking, followed by the light of a flashlight, slowly climbed up the hill and came towards them. A dog entered the woods first, stopped, smelled a man, and let out a high-pitched, restless bark. The thief hissed it to be quiet, and the dog's bark subsided into a hissing sound at once.The three moved their frozen fingers to get a firm grip on the guns in their hands, and the peasant picked up the flashlight he had bought especially for this ambush and shone it. When the thief walked into the open space, he happened to be caught by the light: it was a middle-aged couple with unremarkable appearance, the woman was carrying a small bag, and the man was having a good time with a flashlight. Three truffle guards deliberately bared their weapons and approached the couple without encountering any resistance.With the barrels under their noses, they immediately admitted that they had come to steal truffles before. "How much was stolen?" asked the old farmer, "Two kilograms? Five kilograms? Or more?" The "prisoners" didn't say a word, and the three of them also fell silent, thinking about what to do.Justice must be recovered, but more importantly than justice, they must be made to pay back.One of them whispered something in the old farmer's ear, and the old farmer nodded. "Okay, let's do it like this." He announced the judgment of the three-person temporary court on the spot. Where is the thief's bank?Nyons?Well, if you start now for a walk, and the bank opens when you get there, take out thirty thousand francs, come back here, and we'll watch over your car, your dog, and your wife until you come back. The male prisoner set off, a full four-hour walking journey.His dog was stuffed into the trunk, his wife was locked in the back seat, and three big men squeezed in.It was a cold night, and they drank and dozed off. Dawn came, then dawn, then noon... Aaron stopped, "Great writer, what do you think of the ending?" I made a few guesses, but they were all wrong, Aaron laughed. He said, "It's really simple, not dramatic at all. The thief literally went to Niang's bank, took all his money, and then, poof -- just ran away." "He never came back?" "Nobody ever saw him again." "Did his wife never see him again?" "Forget about his wife, he didn't like her in the first place." "Where's the farmer?" "I'll keep it in my heart until I die." Aaron said he had to go and I paid for the truffle and wished him luck with a good dog.When I got home, I cut open a truffle to see if it was real, and it was all black inside.Looks like Aaron is a nice guy, but, who knows!