FUCK YOU: TRUFFLES
I have had enough. The grip that truffle has on the throats of culinary mediocrity needs to be eviscerated. For too long, I have been bewitched by truffles, believing them to be a delicacy handed down by trendy European angels (who wear linen year-round and never sweat). Now, I see them for what they are: a lie. They are the equivalent of a designer bag used to signal class to the onlookers of its owner. It is not a marker of class, but merely a performance of it. Truffles masquerade as the epitome of luxury, but I know the truth. Once a truffle dish is featured on a menu, a sickness catches, a sickness characterized by delusions of grandeur and unnecessarily complicated aiolis.
Truffles are to cuisine as bananas are to smoothies. The instant a banana enters a smoothie, it becomes a banana smoothie. An attention whore, to be sure! Literally what a fucking PICK ME!!! But I’ll save my admonishment of bananas for a subsequent article. Truffles are the object of my fury here. They do not enhance a dish; they overwrite it. Every bite screams: “Notice me!” “LOVE ME.” “I have big tits and a button nose!” And let’s be CLEAR: most of what you’re smelling isn’t even truffle. It’s smelly oil. Synthetic, smelly oil. A scented candle that cosplays as an ingredient.
Gone are the days when the “Sides” section of a menu would include mere fries, or at most a waffle fry. All of the sudden, menus everywhere became adorned with a truffle fry appetizer… for the table. What happened here? Brainwashing. Millennial brainwashing. An entire generation convinced that if something costs $4 more, it must be sophisticated. The humble fry, once content to be salty and hot, was dragged into a situationship with pulverized parmesan and a ramekin of mayonnaise.
And this is the part that hurts the most. I loved them. I really did. Truffles were my hero. I defended them. I paid the upcharge. I told myself it was worth it. Watching them fall from grace feels like watching a beloved child star deteriorate in real time. You were magic, Truffles. And now look at you. Washed up, diluted, and surrounded by yes-men. Once, truffles were hunted by specially trained pigs, animals with a singular purpose and discernment. Now, they’re dug out of the soil by the clammy hands of consumerism. My GOD, I feel like the LORAX right now.
But truffles cannot be banished alone. They must be escorted out alongside the millennial environment that allowed them to thrive. Edison bulbs dangling aggressively low over communal tables. Chalkboard menus. Exposed brick. Concrete floors. A $19 cocktail served in a repurposed jam jar. All the trends that mistook aesthetic for substance and charged us for the privilege of beholding it. Truffles thrived in this ecosystem, feeding off menus that wanted desperately to feel premium without doing any actual work. Let us also walk truffles out hand-in-hand with the rise of “elevated” comfort food. Food that doesn’t want to nourish you, but wants to impress your ex best friend who still watches your Instagram stories.
This is not a call for eradication. It is a call for containment. Truffles had their moment. A long, loud, over-zealous moment. And so, I propose a sentence befitting the crime. Truffles deserve a life sentence served in the checkout line snack section of a TJ MAXX. There, they may live out their days as “Truffle Sea Salt Popcorn” in crinkly gold bags. There, they may be discounted, misunderstood, and ignored…exactly as they deserve. Not revered. Not shaved tableside. Just glanced at briefly while someone waits to buy socks and a throw blanket.
Exactly where they belong.
