A decadently joyful exploration of the history of Alba and the precious white truffle, which has entrace and delighted palates for centuries.In the foothills of the Italian Alps, on the outskirts of Alba, grow the white truffles. It only thrives underground, in soil where certain oak, poplar, hazel, and linden trees take root. Ugly, cantankerous, and rare, its skin the same creamy brown color of Yukon Gold potatoes, the white truffle seems too primal to be the divine indulgence it has been for three millennia. But a few shavings on risotto explain why. The basic, creamy rice becomes infused with dark, musky aromas and other rare pleasures gastronomes crave. Its properties are magical, its joy infernal. Some say it conjures romantic trysts of raw passion, the odors of spent ecstasy. Others savor the razor thin slices and sense survivalist hormones taking hold, as if venturing into dank, forbidding forests.As with Bordeaux's first growths or Da Vinci's art, the price is folly. And, yet,
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