Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) Read Free Page A

routine.
    “Everything is very right. Voilà , regarde ça! ” He held up a straw-lined box, filled with eggs and a lumpy beige object. “Which of you can tell me what this is?”
    “Er. A potato?” said Alf, scratching his ear.
    Patrick leaned in closer. It looked a lot like a dusty potato, true, but there was something about the smell . . .
    “That’s not . . . an Alba truffle, is it?” Patrick had only seen one once, during a short stint at one of Paris’s top restaurants, and even then it hadn’t been as big as this one. They cost more than . . . well, more than he and Alf were getting paid, that was for certain.
    “ Très bien. ” Chef Maurice picked up the truffle and waved it under his nose like a glass of single malt whisky. “And so, this morning, we will enjoy une belle omelette aux truffes ! That is, after I can find the truffle grater . . . ”
    As Chef Maurice conducted a whirlwind search around the kitchen, banging open cupboards and drawers and cursing loudly to the God of Lost Kitchen Implements, Alf sidled up to Patrick.
    “I thought truffles were made of chocolate,” said the commis chef, out of the corner of his mouth. “How come chef wants to make a chocolate omelette?”
    “It’s not a chocolate truffle, Alf. It’s a truffle truffle.”
    Alf looked up at him blankly. Patrick sought another approach.
    “It’s a type of mushroom. It grows underground.”
    “So . . . like a potato, then?”
    “No! Not like a potato. They grow on the roots of trees, it’s a sort of symbiotic relationship. They work together,” he added, seeing Alf’s forehead wrinkle. “The tree and the truffle.”
    “Aaah, gotcha. So how come chef’s all excited about a mushroom?”
    There was the sound of tumbling boxes from deep inside the storeroom.
    “Well, for one thing, they’re really expensive,” said Patrick. “A truffle like that, from Alba—that’s in the north in Italy—can fetch up to a couple of thousand pounds per kilo, you know. They call it the King of Truffles.”
    “Bah!” shouted an indistinct voice from the storeroom. “The white truffles of Alba, they cannot compare to the black truffle of Périgord. La truffe noire , she is the Queen of Truffles! The texture, the aromas . . . ”
    “Black truffles cost less, though,” said Patrick to Alf. He raised his voice. “So you’re saying a queen is better than a king, chef?”
    “ Absolument! ” Chef Maurice was a feminist, it seemed, at least when it came to truffles. “Aha! Now we can begin.” He emerged triumphantly, waving a small metal slicer.
    “So, these truffles,” said Alf, as if trying out a new idea. “These expensive truffles. They just grow in the ground, yeah, like, in the woods?”
    “If only,” said Patrick. “We don’t get this type around here in England. We only get the cheaper types, like summer truffles, and even then they’re nearly impossible to find.”
    “Bah,” said Chef Maurice, “the English truffle. It is like the English wine. It cannot compare! Now, observe.”
    He slid the truffle across the grater. Thin, almost translucent slivers fell to the plate, beigy-brown marbled by a network of thin white veins. An intense aroma of forest floor mixed with garlic drifted through the kitchen.
    “So are we thinking of doing a truffle menu, chef?” said Patrick, picking up a slice and holding it up to the light.
    “Eh?” Chef Maurice looked up from his slicing. “ Non , non , this truffle is . . . a sample. From a supplier.”
    “Ollie’s started dealing in truffles?” Patrick was surprised. Ollie was perennially strapped for cash, as he was wont to tell anyone he met. Brokering truffles was far beyond his usual cash flow capabilities.
    “ Non , non , a new supplier,” said Chef Maurice hastily. “But enough questions. Now we eat!”
    He threw a large knob of butter into a pan, cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl, and a minute later the three chefs stood around the