Black Diamond - Martin Walker [9]
“A drink? Coffee?” They shook their heads. “It’s the market. There’s something nasty going on, and they won’t listen to me. When they think of fraud, they think only of the old tricks like people dyeing the white summer truffles and selling them as blacks. But this is different. One of the renifleurs, not the one you met, says a couple of his big clients in Paris claim they’ve been fobbed off with fakes, cheap sinensis, Chinese black truffles. It’s common enough in oils and prepared foods, but each of them reckoned they got some Chinese rubbish in a shipment of tailings, that’s the small and crumbled stuff they use for truffle oil and stews.”
“No official complaints yet?” asked Bruno.
“The big hotels hate to do it because it could hurt their reputation. These are places where they’ll pay a thousand, fifteen hundred euros for a good Périgord black. But if they feel cheated they just won’t buy any more.”
“You said nobody will listen to you. Who did you tell?” asked Bruno.
“Didier, the market manager. When he said I was crazy I went to the mayor. But he’s invested a lot of money in the market and new equipment designed to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen. He gave me the brush-off. And Nicco is so close to retirement he didn’t want to know. So I thought of you, Bruno. You know truffles, you know what they mean to this part of the world.”
“How do these Chinese truffles get here?”
“Straight from the thirteenth arrondissement in Paris, down around place d’Italie. It’s the biggest Chinatown in Europe. The truffles come in from China, and we’re the next stop. There’s a lot of money to be made, but it’s going to ruin Ste. Alvère. Look, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Hercule went to his kitchen and came back with a tray. It held a cheeseboard with a quarter of what looked like Brie de Meaux, some slices from a baguette and three small bottles, each filled with oil covering a layer of small black lumps.
“I want you to try this,” Hercule said, putting down the tray as a rich, almost gamy scent reached Bruno’s nostrils. “A couple of days ago, I sliced this Brie in half horizontally and slipped three slices of truffle between the halves. I just took them out, but the perfume will be wonderful.”
He smeared thin wedges of Brie onto three slices of bread and handed one each to Bruno and the baron.
“Glorious,” said Bruno. The rich and succulent cheese had suddenly developed whole new depths and layers of taste, as if … Bruno tried to think of a way to put it. And then he thought that it tasted as if it had grown up and gone to university and won doctorates and become a professor and had a loving wife and handsome children and won a Nobel Prize and spent the money on expensive mistresses and vintage champagne.
“Smells like a poule de luxe,” said the baron, and Bruno wondered why truffles made men think of sex. It had the same effect on him.
Hercule turned to the bottles on the tray. “This first one is the real thing. Olive oil with one of my decent blacks from last year.” He held it out for them. “Now try this. That’s a Chinese black in the same oil. Can you tell the difference?”
Bruno could. There was a sour note to the odor, like poor soil baked into dust by the sun. And another flavor lingered behind it, almost like gasoline.
“Now try this. That’s what they’re getting in Paris. It’s mainly Chinese, with a bit of the real thing to add flavor.”
This time Bruno smelled the real black Périgord first, but then the flavor seemed to die away. The sample had the same woodsy smell, but the vegetation had a touch of rankness.
“It starts off okay, but after a few moments my brumale is better than that,” he said.
“Big difference.” The baron nodded.
“Any idea who might be behind this?”
Hercule shrugged. “It has to be one of the regulars, someone we know and trust. It takes a long time to accept strangers in the market.”
“If the mayor decided to take you seriously, what could be done to stop this?” Bruno asked.
“Constant spot