In Italy's Alba, Where Have All the Truffles Gone?

The manager of our hotel suggested some places we could try. He warned us not to order black truffles, which he said were as common as potatoes.

We wandered through the cobblestone streets of the medieval part of Alba -- it also has a bustling modern section, since it's quite a prosperous little city -- looking at the restaurant menus posted outside. Not a white truffle in sight. We saw one black truffle dish, but I wasn't falling for that.

When we got to the last of the manager's suggestions, Osteria Lalibera, with still no white truffles on view, I decided to just go in and find out.

You would think I had asked owner Flavia Boffa if I could buy her first-born.

" Tartufi bianchi ? Now?" she asked incredulously. Even though we were both speaking in Italian, she eyed me suspiciously.

"Well, I was hoping, maybe," I stammered. "I saw them in some of the shops in town."

She snorted. "Those aren't Albese truffles. Those are Tuscan truffles. Unscrupulous people are trying to pass those off as the real thing."

She pulled out a thick book all about truffles and explained what the problem was. The precious white subterranean funghi are 75 percent water, she said, pointing to a big chart on the composition of truffles. And a cold snap right after Christmas froze them right where they were under the Albese ground, the only place a true white truffle grows.

Diners were waiting to pay their bills. I hadn't said we were going to eat there. In fact, I had given the opposite impression -- that I hadn't given up on finding a place that could satisfy my desire. But she didn't seem to care.

First Alba lesson: They take this truffle thing seriously.

Boffa was able to convince me that I wasn't going to be able to eat real Alba truffles. And I thought it might kill her if I accidentally downed one of those Tuscan fakes.

She had spent 15 minutes with me already, and her restaurant was packed. So we decided to stay.