Wanderlust's Lizzie Matthews goes truffle hunting with Professor Augusto Tocci and his dog Kiko in the hills of east Tuscany
I winced involuntarily as our car swerved off the hillside road and plunged into the forest, careering down a tiny track almost obliterated by trees. Branches screeched unforgivingly down the paintwork, and as we sped ever faster through the blur of green, I couldn’t help thinking that any moment now we would launch ourselves, Batmobile-like, through a giant waterfall and into Bruce Wayne’s secret lair.
But we weren’t in the Batmobile – or anything remotely resembling it. We were in a battered Fiat Panda that smelt of mushrooms and had strange sounds coming from the boot. Professor Augusto Tocci was at the wheel – a twinkly-eyed Italian who knows the forest like the back of his hand and is the enthusiastic perpetrator of selviturismo (woodland tourism) among the hills of east Tuscany.
One of the world’s leading experts on funghi, Augusto has given talks at Kew Gardens, advised ministers in Bhutan on truffle-hunting and has even cooked a meal of ‘forest-food’ for the Prince of Wales. During my woodland weekend of ‘green gastronomy’, I could think of no one more qualified to teach me the ways of the forests.
The Panda skidded to a halt and Augusto leapt out, waving his arms excitedly at the soaring trees as if greeting old friends. In front of us, the silvery woods fell away steeply down the hillside towards a riverbed where the sun glimmered through the trees.
Despite the beautiful location I couldn’t help but notice that though the car’s engine had stopped, the strange noises hadn’t. Augusto opened the boot and out bounded a small dog with scruffy brown curls and as much energy as a sugar-high toddler. He ran in dizzying circles around us, jumped into a bramble bush and out again and planted muddy paws on my jeans. “Now Kiko…” said Augusto, holding the little dog’s head in his hands. “Go,” he instructed earnestly. “Go and find truffles for Lizzie!”
With that, Kiko was off down the hillside, the professor and myself in hot pursuit, bounding over logs and sliding through leaves. I had no idea about the finer details of truffle-hunting: how long it would take to find one; how many we might find; whether we might even return home empty-handed? So it was a bit of a surprise when, after just two minutes, Kiko took a keen interest in a small hazelnut tree. Surely it couldn’t be this easy?
Apparently, for Kiko, it was. Augusto was by his side in a flash, directing proceedings with a bizarre stream of clucks – a cross between a Kalahari Bushman and Donald Duck. As Kiko snuffled through the soil, Augusto whipped out his vanghino, (a short, wooden stick with a pointed trowel).
It was a real team effort, man and dog spurring each other on, loosening the hard ground and searching excitedly through the soil. Had I not known otherwise, you might have thought this was the first truffle they had ever found.
For find it they did, nestled awkwardly behind a root; an unassuming, knobbly black mound the size of a golf ball.
Augusto prised it from the earth, sniffed appreciatively and, with a flourish, threw it over to me. Covered with small clods of soil and shining globules of Kiko’s slobber, it wasn’t the prettiest thing in the world. But what truffles lack aesthetically, they more than make up for in perfume – that heady mix of porcini, parmesan, earth and sweet grass.
“Bravo Kiko!” I exclaimed, ruffling his ears. Augusto joined the praise, patting the little dog affectionately and throwing him a biscuit from his left pocket. In his right pocket we dropped our truffle and chased after Kiko who was off again. For the next hour or so we raced up hills, fought through thorn bushes and sprinted across meadows behind the ever-energetic mutt.
Occasionally we got there too late only to find an empty hole and Kiko munching sheepishly. Sometimes he would get distracted halfway through digging and race off to follow another scent, leaving Augusto sifting through the soil crying “Dové Kiko? Where?” before calling him back to finish the job.
By the time even Kiko’s energy started to wane, Augusto’s pocket of dog treats was empty, while his right pocket jostled with about 30 black truffles. “Kiko’s one of the best,” he said proudly. “When I met Prince Charles, I told him Kiko and I could find truffles in Buckingham Palace’s gardens!”
I didn’t doubt it for a minute.
With Kiko padding wearily behind us, we wandered slowly through the forest, stopping at almost every plant for Augusto to crush a pungent leaf for me to sniff, pull handfuls of red berries off the branches and reel off an endless stream of Latin names. “There’s so much more to the forest than wood,” he said. “Herbs, fruits, funghi – all good for the kitchen and for our health.” We nibbled on peppery seeds that turned our mouths numb (good for muscular aches), found herbs that helped digestion and ate bright Carniolan cherries – which just tasted nice.
“This is what selviturismo is all about,” said Augusto, chewing on a twig. “I want to teach people all that the woods have to offer. I’ve even set up my own Scuola del Bosca (Forest School).”
He was eager to show it to me after we left the forest; a simple wooden hut and small arboretum where I imagine he holds groups of kids to rapt attention as he leaps between the desks clutching handfuls of berries.
Pockets bulging, we headed back to Il Casalone, the farmhouse where I was staying, run by Maria Teresa Tocci, Augusto’s daughter. Together, the Tocci family has created something truly special – a place where nature has filtered into every nook and cranny. A cosy library groans with books on the local flora; vases of blackberry brambles stand on every windowsill; even the rooms have foresty names. Mine, of course, was Tartufo – the Truffle Suite.
And then there’s the kitchen. The Toccis have created more than 200 recipes using every woodland ingredient going, from edible flowers to spiny thorns. Teresa’s meals are four-course tributes to the forest – homemade pasta laced with truffles, herby bruschetta and colourful salads. Ask nicely and she’ll tell you how she does it. Ask really nicely and she might even let you into her cucina.
That evening I felt like an honorary Tocci. I even had my own apron. Augusto and his wife Luisa joined us and together we chopped and stirred furiously among piles of leaves and strange fruits. I stayed out of the animated family debate about the soup’s required cooking time, and politely grated my way through the mountain of truffles that had been put aside for an omelette.
And then we ate. I never imagined that burdock soup could be so moreish, that wild kiwi risotto actually worked or that an omelette containing more truffle than egg (and a generous slug of grappa) could be quite so delicious. It seemed only right to raise our glasses and toast our providers: “To the forest… and little Kiko.”
