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Josh Barrie’s dishes that can do one: Truffle oil anything
I have found the pinnacle of insincerity, and it is truffle oil. Fun in theory but disastrous in practice, I don’t know when it first burst onto the scene but it is ubiquitous now, drizzled on macaroni cheese in the hope of masking inadequacy. Like so many proseccos, it is probably Italy trolling us, as the nation and its inhabitants like to do. “Send this to Britain,” they say, “Gino D’Acampo can sell it in the provinces.”
To acknowledge the story arc we must consider its inspiration: truffle, an ingredient that is flavourful and blissfully seasonal. It is expensive but uniquely satisfying on top of risotto or bouncy pasta. Shavings of truffle bring such comfort — one of those worthy luxuries, like spending big on Penhaligon’s aftershave but using it only for special occasions.
By contrast, truffle oil is an irritant: three brazen spritzes of daily Armani Emporio filling tired nostrils on the Underground. Most truffle oils, as everybody probably knows by now, contain no truffle whatsoever, only synthetic flavourings. What these are made of is anyone’s guess. They are for when chefs run out of ideas, a cheap attempt to bring on nostalgic thoughts of a weekend on the Amalfi Coast. And while there are angelic varieties that host real pieces of truffle, most are pretenders. A Kia Stinger parked in the suburbs, desperately trying to be a BMW.
On fries, it is discordant, a near-toxic deliverance on what would otherwise be a safe and simple side dish. Add parmesan and you may as well remove the potatoes altogether. On crisps? Another inharmonious snack. Take your truffled Torres (real truffle, 0.09 per cent) — not good for much but heading to your local Odeon to spoil everyone’s evenings with a penetrating waft of artificiality.
While there are angelic varieties that host real pieces of truffle, most are pretenders. A Kia Stinger parked in the suburbs, desperately trying to be a BMW.
Truffle oil is yet another example of people in Britain simply failing to calm down. Even a thimbleful distracts from hard work; line cooks probably spend hours chopping onions, celery, and carrots to build the esteemed foundation to a relatively pleasing ragu, only for some executive chef in a middling chain of brasseries to carelessly chuck budget truffle oil over it all. The dish will sit next to floppy zucchini fritti and yesterday’s focaccia. It will be twelve quid.
It is an affected attempt to elevate. But then it’s also the Mr Blobby of the food world, turning up uninvited from some Nineties basement at the BBC: you have a marked segment where there might be a moment of nuance, and in it bursts, ruinously.
Chains, of course they need a crutch or two, but I’d go so far as to suppose part of the reason the high street centre ground is collapsing is down to elements such as truffle oil. It is the emperor’s new clothes of risotto-based drama, and it must be done away with. Gino D’Acampo has a lot to answer for.
