Underground Gold
Truffles Are Reshaping Our Understanding of Fungi, Food, and the Future
There is a quaint little alley of oaks planted at my aunt’s house in France. Chêne vert, as they’re called locally, aren’t the most impressive trees. They are planted in two intentional rows, each tree is a little more than two meters tall, pruned with waist-high trunks that sprout into several sprawling branches, not too different from the grove of olives down the hill. The trees create a nice enough canopy of dark green oak leaves that shade a patch of comfortable grass. Each summer–when I’m visiting with my family–it’s the perfect place to escape the brutal July heat and enjoy a baguette with some tapenade, and maybe take a swig from a bottle of Rosé.
But right now it’s March, and the climate this time of year is either bitter cold or incessantly damp, certainly not picnic weather. Regardless, I wake up early, ignoring how sore I am from several days of olive pruning. I’m going on a little excursion. I’ll be doing a bit of snooping, maybe even some excavating–or what the French call “cavage”–around the base of each tree.
My breath fogs my glasses as I kneel at the base of the first row. I’m not staring at the ground, but instead, just above it. I don’t see anything as I scan the base of each tree. I head to the next row, and with a little more patience I see something almost imperceptible. A few gnat-sized insects drunkenly hover just above the ground. Like an X on a treasure map, they may be giving away the location of a buried treasure just below the surface. I look at my watch. I’m late for the olives. I’ll have to wait until the summer to do some digging.
Those twin rows of Quercus ilex–holm oaks in English–weren’t planted simply for the benefit of their shade. They were put in the ground to attract an invaluable visitor. Nestled in the roots of these trees, lies one of gastronomy's most prized–and expensive–ingredients: the truffle. These fragrant fungi have enraptured the culinary world for centuries, commanding prices that rival precious metals and generating an exclusive mystique unrivaled by any other food.
Truffle Mania
Truffles have exploded onto the restaurant scene in a matter of decades, with everything from truffle butter, to truffle fries, truffle-topped pastas, and truffle mashed potatoes on the menu. I’ve even had a white truffle canna cotta dessert. And if for some reason you can’t find them on the carte, most high end restaurants will gladly shave a pile of truffles onto your plate, charging hundreds of extra dollars for the experience.
The truffle hype hasn't come without its vocal detractors. Celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay doesn't mince words with his opinion on the overuse of truffle oil. Food critic Pete Wells of The New York Times lamented the "truffle-washing" of menus, where establishments inflate prices for dishes that contain only trace amounts or synthetic versions. Food justice advocates condemn the growing divide between the food haves and have nots, pointing to $200 truffle-adorned burgers and $50 truffle fries as symbols of runaway food inequality. In an era of increasing food insecurity and climate concerns, the truffle boom raises uncomfortable questions about luxury, accessibility, and the true value of taste.
But I have to admit, I enjoy my fair share of truffles. I remember a particularly tasty salami we carried in the butcher shop from our friends at Tempesta Salumi, or the truffle ravioli that almost made me cry after a single bite at the now closed Osteria Latini in Brentwood, CA. The earthy, cheesy smell is intoxicating, almost erotic. And this visceral reaction from consuming them isn't just culinary—it hints at something primal in our connection to these underground treasures, a relationship that spans continents and centuries.
Despite your opinion on truffles as a gourmet indulgence, these underground umami bombs are increasingly being recognized as something more. Medicinal messengers, evolutionary catalysts, perhaps even agents of social change, truffles are really about hidden networks—mycelial and man-made—that delve deeper. Looking past the luxury price tags and Instagram-worthy shavings, they offer profound connections that have been quietly thriving beneath our feet all along.
Beneath the Surface
Let’s start with the basics. Truffles are subterranean fungi that grow near the roots of trees, primarily oak, hazelnut, and sometimes even pine. Unlike mushrooms that fruit above ground–called epigeous by the experts–-truffles are hypogeous, developing entirely underground to provide their arboreal landlords with a symbiotic exchange. They produce complex nutrients and minerals the tree needs in exchange for basic sugars that they thrive on.
No one knows when people started eating truffles, but there were mentions of truffle hunting in ancient times. A 17th Century BCE Sumerian inscription mentions how the “uncivilized” desert nomads would dig them up. Funny how the king of luxury foods began as sustenance for folks on the margins. Like lobster fed to prisoners, caviar given away free in Russian bars, and oysters eaten in Victorian Debtors Prisons, history’s most expensive delicacies often share humble beginnings. By the 4th century, however, Romans had elevated truffles to a culinary art, with recipes appearing in the ancient cookbook De Re Coquinaria by Apicius.
In Medieval Times, truffles were on the tables of kings and commoners alike, sometimes in surprising quantities. In Iraq, you might skewer a kebab of truffles, and in Spain, they were wrapped in ham and roasted whole.
Today, the most coveted truffles, the white (Tuber magnatum) from Italy's Piedmont region, and the black Périgord (Tuber melanosporum) from France, are so expensive that people seldom eat more than a few slivers at a time. The Guinness Book of World Records claims that in 2007, a white truffle from Tuscany weighing in at almost three pounds, was sold at auction for a jaw-dropping $330,000, or more than $7,000 an ounce!
Treasure Hunting
What makes truffles so special in the culinary world are their extraordinary aroma and flavor. Often described as earthy, musky, and with notes of garlic, the truffle's complex profile is unlike anything else in nature. Their flavor is so potent that they're typically used sparingly – shaved in thin slices over pasta, eggs, or risotto, or infused into oils and butters.
Because truffles always live underground, they are notoriously difficult to locate. Years ago, the Italian truffle hunters (“tartufai“) used pigs with their exceptional sense of smell to detect the mature fungi's distinct aroma beneath the soil. Unfortunately, pigs also had a tendency to eat the valuable discoveries before their handlers could stop them, not to mention the environmental damage they can do with their rutting. So now, most wild truffle harvesting involves trained dogs. The Italians even have a special breed, the Lagotto Romagnolo, though experts have told me any motivated pooch can be trained for the task.
Truffle hunting in Europe typically occurs from September to December, with peak season around November. Hunters spend days scouring the forest with their dogs, selling their finds out of car trunks, and taking the remainder to the cartel-like truffle markets that control the price and restrict access.
With increased global demand, the truffle trade has had to evolve, and farmers are experimenting with cultivation. With only a few decades of commercial success, Spain appears to be the leading farmed truffle producer, and several other countries, including the US, Canada, and even Australia are gaining market share.
With cultivation expanding beyond Europe's borders, and new players entering the scene, one passionate advocate is challenging not just how we find and grow truffles, but how we think about them entirely. What if these underground treasures hold more value than just their flavor?
Challenging Tradition
What if truffles were medicinal, and their ultra-luxury pricing meant we were merely micro-dosing one of nature's most potent panaceas? What if there were a way to democratize truffles, increase supply and reduce their cost so that we could experience the full spectrum of benefits from these underground wonders?
This proposition comes from the most unlikely advocate. Will Padilla Brown doesn’t have a culinary background or a PhD. He looks more like a hip-hop artist than a citizen scientist. Yet he has already spent two decades observing and listening to mushrooms in order to learn their benefits and how best to cultivate them.
I ask if he’s actually talking to the mushrooms.
“Well, it’s not in English, that’s for sure,” Will responses.
However he does it, Padilla Brown has become one of the foremost experts on mycelial cultivation. He first learned how to grow cordyceps, a parasitic fungus with purported anti-aging benefits. Today, cordyceps are sold as supplements, tinctures, and even coffee, likely due in part to Will’s pioneering research. As CEO of MycoSymbiotics, a mushroom research facility he essentially built in his garage, Will travels globally in search of mushroom cultivation secrets, producing documentaries and published books and articles about his adventures. And now he’s set his sights on a new mushroom frontier, the democratization of the North American truffle.
“The current truffle energy is crazy. We are at a point of emergence; where everyone is in a position to help create this new market,” says Padilla Brown. “That’s fucking exciting to me.”
Medicinal Potential
I first met Will when he was a guest speaker at the LA Mycological Society. Arriving with his three young children in tow, he casually set up his display booth while graciously taking questions from a handful of super fans. His truffle talk was equal parts sermon, scientific session, and TED talk. The rapid-fire delivery peppered with hip-hop slang was both entertaining and overwhelming. This guy knew his stuff.
He explained that truffles cannot reproduce on their own. Since the fungus never gets above ground, it can’t release its spores like a typical mushroom, letting the air disperse them far afield. Instead, truffles need to be eaten and excreted by mushroom-loving animals. That’s why more than 45 mammal species depend on truffles as primary food, from mice and voles to bears and squirrels. To attract animals, truffles produce endocannabinoid, a fatty acid very similar to THC, the psychoactive ingredient in cannabis. This acts like a biochemical reward.
“When animals eat this stuff,” Will says. “They feel good man.”
In his "Truffle Vole Theory,” Padilla Brown suggests that the truffles’ endocannabinoid reward system might have also had mind-boosting benefits that could have accelerated neurological development in mammals some 100 million years ago, giving them an evolutionary jump start.
These same neurochemicals might have other benefits to humans by helping regulate the nervous system and benefiting sleep, appetite and mood.
Encouraged by the talk, I bought a truffle tincture that Will says is still experimental but has had anecdotal medical benefits. His customers attest that a few drops a day have increased cognition, alleviated pain, stimulated creativity, and one customer experienced reduced symptoms of arthritis.
Whether you agree with Will or not, truffles are still crazy expensive. Even if these fungi offer remarkable health benefits, they remain largely inaccessible to most people. With prices reaching thousands of dollars per ounce, how could anyone afford to experiment with them as medicine rather than rare culinary treats? Is there a way for ordinary people to experience what could be nature's hidden neurological enhancer?
The solution might be in the forests of North America.
America's Truffle Revolution
While European truffles remain the most famous, folks are discovering that North America has its own native treasures. For several decades, Oregon has been promoting its white truffles (Tuber oregonense and Tuber gibbosum), and now has an annual Oregon Truffle Festival. The Blue Ridge Mountains host the eponymous Blue Ridge Truffle (Imaia gigantea), and the Appalachian truffle (Tuber canaliculatum) which grows from Ontario, Canada all the way to Georgia, has a "sweet, cinnamon-type aroma" that some chefs believe can compete with the prestigious Alba white truffle of Italy.
Burwell Farms in Burlington, North Carolina, has become the largest producer of truffles in the US. Their native pecan truffle (Tuber lyonii), once considered worthless by pecan farmers, is gaining recognition among chefs for its distinctive smoky, hickory-nut flavor.
Will remarks enthusiastically, “Yo, the truffle’s range in North America is stupid. Anyone with a dog can make lots of money.”
He believes that the biggest barrier to exploring the benefits of truffles lies in the supply. With greater cultivation and amateur truffle hunting in the US, we have the opportunity to unshackle control from a handful of European players, and increase supply. Only then will the price drop, allowing more people to explore the culinary and medicinal benefits of truffles.
From Luxury to Legacy
As I prepare to return to France this summer, I'm struck by how truffles connect us across time and continents. From ancient nomads digging up the desert, to Will Padilla Brown's vision of democratized cultivation, these mysterious fungi continue to evolve in their relationship with humanity. Perhaps the future of truffles isn't solely in the exclusive gardens of France or the forests of Alba, but also in the pecan groves of Georgia, the orchards of North Carolina, and backyard oaks all across America. The next chapter in this underground story may see truffles return to their roots—not just as rarified luxuries shaved sparingly by white-gloved waiters, but as profound connectors, accessible treasures that remind us of the intricate networks that sustain us all.
Whether you encounter them as a once-in-a-lifetime indulgence, or someday as part of your daily wellness routine, I invite you to explore beneath the surface, down in the dark recesses of the soil, where nature's most extraordinary wonders hide in plain sight.
Love that vision!