Woodland mushroom–picking has become a big business
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Truffle trouble, forest conservation and the mushroom mafia

Mycological mayhem in Epping Forest.

The story has all the makings of a classic crime caper: our ancient woodlands, stripped bare by ruthless fungi rustlers from the east. Dog walkers in the New Forest have reported vans — white, no doubt, and in severe need of a good wash — unloading gangs of mushroom pickers, “often eastern Europeans”, according to the Telegraph, and “armed with carrier bags”. Crikey.

Wherever they’re from, however, the consequence of this polythene army has been dire: the National Trust, which owns much of the land concerned, reports that there are now no edible mushrooms left in the northern part of the forest, and warns that, should such activity continue unchecked, they may never return.

Because the law is unclear, and largely relies on the goodwill of foragers, it’s a difficult one to police effectively; similar concerns have led to a blanket ban on all fungi foraging in Epping Forest, with hefty fines for anyone caught red-handed.

It’s an international problem: last month a German forestry worker was hit by a car after attempting to detain a gang of professional pickers for questioning. But with buyers paying up to £84 a kilo for fresh morels, illegal harvesting clearly seems a risk worth taking.

When it comes to the far rarer and pricier truffle, of course, the problem is mushrooms. There’s a vigorous black market in what the Church once aptly dubbed “the devil’s fruit”, with canny dealers passing off eastern European, or even worthless Chinese truffles as top quality, but increasingly rare French or Italian specimens.

Dog theft, or even worse, poisoning is also sadly common, the truffle hound being the hunter’s best friend in this lonely business; pigs are said to have better noses, but are far more reluctant to hand over their spoils. And it gets worse: three years ago a young southern French truffle grower, Laurent Rambaud, was charged with the murder of a man he found trespassing on his patch, armed with a knife.

Hundreds of supporters marched in support of Rambaud’s right to defend his crop, including many fellow growers, who complained to La Provence newspaper they felt their fields were “like open-air safes ... when times get hard, thieves help themselves.” Those they sell to are frequent victims of muggings and burglaries, and in 2007, a well-known Italian hunter was forced off the road on his way to an auction near Turin, and relieved of his tiny but intensely valuable cargo.

Such is the allure of this aromatic tuber that more than one American chef has confessed to bypassing FDA authorised importers in favour of smuggling truffles into the country themselves, packed in ice, or coffee beans, in order to make it through customs. One, New York’s Frank Prisinzano, confessed the process “always feels like a drug deal” but maintained it was the only way to guarantee he was getting the real deal.

But even if, like me, your pasta’s more likely to be topped with parmesan than a freshly shaved tartufi bianca, you’ve probably still been a victim of the greatest fungi fraud of all: truffle oil. Indeed, some of you have no doubt still got a bottle in the back of the cupboard, left over from the Nineties.

If so, you may be surprised to learn that pungent truffle flavour is probably the distinctly less romantic sounding 2,4- Dithiapentane compound, the product of a laboratory rather than a damp patch of Piedmontese earth. The gulf between it and the real thing has been memorably likened to the difference between sniffing dirty underwear, and actually having sex.

Even Gordon Ramsay, who once described truffle oil as “a bit of a chef’s dream” now decries it as “one of the most ... ridiculous ingredients ever”. If the police want a crime to solve, perhaps Waitrose should be their first stop.

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 20 November 2013 issue of the New Statesman, iBroken

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood