Gourmet Gold:
Chanterelle Hunters Scour Hillsides for Buried Treasure
...continued

“I can tell them apart,” he says, dismissively. His tone is authoritative, but he can see that Doug, Sean and I aren’t convinced. “They really don’t look that much alike,” he says, trying to backpedal to the time when we felt safe and secure. We’re still waiting for more detail. “They don’t have pale flesh like the chanterelle, or wavy edges. And they grow on rotting wood or stumps. Chanterelles grow on the ground.” We take mental note of these seemingly insignificant differences.

 “I know a few mushrooms really well,” Ben volunteers. “There are a lot of mushrooms I know nothing about, but the bottom line is, I would never eat a mushroom if I weren’t 100 percent sure I knew what it was.” With a little pressing, Ben informs us that ingestion of the Jack O’Lantern causes extreme gastrointestinal distress that can last several days. “It probably won't kill you,” he says, “but it’s likely to make you wish you were dead.” I decide to show every mushroom I pick to Ben just to be sure.

A few final twists and turns along the narrow trail and we’re standing under "Ben’s Tree," so named because Ben once found an abundance of chanterelles beneath it. Ben tells us to watch for "shrumps," mounds of dirt and leaves that are often the most visible sign of a chanterelle pushing it’s way up from the earth.

Though chanterelles are easier to fell, once spotted, than wild deer or geese, we soon learn that they are no less elusive. We go to work, poking and prodding anything that looks as if it might be one of the notorious shrumps. After what seems like a painfully long while, our excitement beginning to wane, Doug calls out from a thicket just out of sight. " I think I found something!" We all rush over to see what he’s pointing at. To our delight, it’s the telltale bright orange flesh of a chanterelle. Doug slices the stem just above the ground and we all admire its beauty.

We continue our foraging, beating our way through branches that scratch our arms and faces. We poke and prod and poke some more, but alas, we have no more luck. To our dismay, we soon discover signs that other mushroom hunters have been here recently, and there are no mushrooms to be found. We continue to search in vain and curse the unseen shroomers that have beaten us to the punch. In what seems like a last ditch attempt to ward off our ensuing hopelessness, Ben leads us to the edge of the grove where low, brambly bushes border the grassy hillside above. "This might be a good place," he says, wanly, as though trying hard to sound upbeat. We fan out along the tree line.

To our surprise, Sean quickly returns, beaming and cradling several big, luscious chanterelles. Soon, we’re seeing patches of them everywhere. I’m relieved that we’ve finally hit the motherlode and we won’t go home empty handed. We scramble in the dirt, digging at first politely with our sticks, then with bare hands, working quickly as if we’re afraid the chanterelles will sneak off into the woods if we give them half a chance.

After what seems like just a few minutes of frenzied harvesting, but in reality is almost an hour, we dump all of our mushrooms out in a pile to see how many we’ve collected. When the last of the mushrooms is placed on the stack, I see that we’ve more than accomplished our task of getting just enough mushrooms for dinner. Piled high before us is roughly eight pounds of golden chanterelles. Ben is nonplussed—he’s picked as much as fifty pounds in a day before—but he’s pleased that he has properly introduced his students to the art, science and sport of mushroom hunting.

On the way home, we animatedly discuss the events of the day until the conversation turns to what we’ll do with our treasure. Once back in the city, we crowd into Ben’s small kitchen, and attend to the tedious task of cleaning the mushrooms, gently wiping them with a damp towel and using small paint brushes to sweep out the specks of dirt that hide between the delicate gills. Soon the four of us are clamoring for equipment and jockeying for stovetop space. The room quickly fills with a heady steam, rich with the aromas of mushrooms, butter, shallots and herbs.

We are exhausted from the day’s events, and we eat quietly, only exclaiming now and then about the delectable bursts of flavor each bite brings. It is clear that Ben was right: No mushrooms have ever tasted this good.