The Mushroom Hunters: On the Trail of an Underground America

I had come to Boyne City because I have always been drawn to nature's secrets more than to, say Hollywood's secrets or the secrets of Wall Street hedge-fund managers. Nature is real. It exists beyond our ability to create it or even mediate it.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you. —DAVID WAGONER

I’ve sat down to dinner at one of the nicest restaurants on the West Coast and watched the owner go table to table showing off a Périgord truffle the size of a tennis ball. The girth was impressive yet it possessed no magic—it was completely tasteless, probably because it had been dug up too early. That’s a crime, Jeremy Faber would say. He has little tolerance for the lack of sophistication in the American truffle market. The pickers rake the truffles too soon; the merchants buy the unripe truffles anyway, out of ignorance; and trusting customers allow themselves to be fooled because they’ve never actually tasted a good truffle and don’t know any better. The result is a collective shrug.