It does sound pretentious, I know that. I also know that I recommended celery salt for much the same reasons – but my whole kitchen now smells of truffles, I am hooked by their deep, dark fragrance. My allegiances have been changed, gentrified, bobo-ised.
Truffle salt for the best crispy roast chicken skin.
Truffle salt with butter and purple, pink and yellow radishes.
Truffle salt on the last of the summer tomatoes, ones that are bright green but still ripe.
(These last two from the market gardener preferred by Paris chefs, Joel Thiébault. His stall at the President Wilson market is not as pretty as the others in this chic market, as in, his produce is not arranged in fans and pyramids but plunked down in a practical fashion. But he has three colours of Swiss chard, kale otherwise unheard of in Paris, orange beetroots and purple cauliflowers. When I had queued patiently to pick out my tomatoes I told him, “they look beautiful” and he retorted, “they taste good, more important.” He was right – they had too much flavour to cook with, requiring only salt and oil.)
Where was I? Truffle salt on hard boiled eggs.
Truffle salt on a humble spinach flan, my new obsession.
Admittedly sometimes it is just : truffle salt, open the lid and breathe in. (Perhaps I have a problem?)