Our Little European Odyssey: Marche au truffes ...

What a palava this seemed to be. We were in Sarlat at the start of the truffle season. Not the type of truffle that we might think, those chocolatey bite sized nuggets rolled in cocoa or coconut. These are truffes, the black truffle that grow under certain Oak trees in the ground and are often harvested with the aid of a dog or pig who can sniff the unequalled aroma that is truffle. Black, coal like chunks of fungus that attract an amazing frenzy of activity and cause all sorts of predilections around the world. What we witnessed was the black truffle fandango. There is equally certain rituals attached to the truffe blanche or white truffle. Me, I couldn't tell you which us more superior, but rest assured there will be argument both sides that say theirs is so.

We realised the day we were in Sarlat was also truffle Market day. So we waited until the allotted time and witnessed the most bizarre selling process we've seen. A long table set up outside the gendarmerie (police) station with the truffle sellers down one side each with their little cane basket full of, what looks like, clods covered with a little scrap of Gingham. The sellers clearly look as if they've just stepped out of a medieval film set themselves, or they've just finished harvest and haven't had time to get cleaned up before the market. The gendarmerie sit with what appears to be a registration book. The other side of the table, the public side let's say, is roped off and the "public" are actually banned from entering. This is where the buyers come in. Smartly dressed, mostly, looking a bit like antique dealers, if one had to stereotype; a little bit smooth and possibly a whole lot of smarm.

Then the dance begins. The buyers firstly, eyeing the truffles then feeling the weight, like it's weight is a significant scoring characteristic. Then the sniff. The long drawn in inhale; so much so I reckon I should have been able to smell it too. Then the weight thing again, another sniff, a weigh, a sniff a bit of jocularity between the two, a nod a handshake and the gendarmerie writes something in the register. Done. All done.

We were expecting some sort of auction but no, its almost silent, very quick and truffles exchanged. Or so we thought.

No sooner had, what we thought was, the truffle market closed the real action took place. The sellers, the ones that looked a bit rough and worse for wear, opened up their car boots and started a whole new selling war. Bags of truffles appeared, scales set up and buyers appeared to go through the sniffing thing again and this time shake hands, write cheques and walk away with bags of truffles.

What we witnessed had to be seen to be believed. It was magical in its theatrics. At the cost of truffles, by the kilo, we must have witnessed tens of thousands of dollars change hands during this dance.

The long table. The sellers on the right. The gendarmerie is seated

The buyers move in.

A bit of a feel. A sniff or two ...

The boot Sale begins.

And this is what all the fuss is about. Clods!

I tried to focus on her cheque to see how much she was paying but no joy. Rest assured there was lots of number crunching on their iPhones calculating as if it was the stock exchange.

I am sure there is a whole lot more to this time honoured business of truffle selling and it is probably something you're born into. It's big business, highly regulated and policed and attracts massive amounts if organised crime. The end result though is indescribable and like nothing else I've ever tried. It's more than an aroma its enlightening.

We went home to a home cooked meal if our market bought veg and confit.