Rob’s the guy I sleep with and eat with. It’s he who bought me my first beehive and he knows how important honey is to me. So when he went to Philadelphia he brought me back a little pot of wonder.
When I saw the label I was officially sneering. Truffle lavender honey seems, well, over-complicated. I know from Norfolk that Lavender honey is wonderful. Truffles are wonderful. But putting them together? It’s like the people who produce strange cheese from a perfectly good white Stilton with stupid blueberries squashed into it. It’s over-engineering a serendipitous (and, let’s face it, rather exclusive) marriage of flavours. It’s…
I was still muttering such things as I opened the pot.
And then I stopped. Truffle gives me a solar plexus kick like only one other flavour I know (and that is coriander. I can’t wait for the blogpost yet to come about coriander honey). And the impact of truffle is not just in the taste, but also in the smell.
I’m used to the smelling of food being a polite, maybe academic activity. It’s the postponement of pleasure, the ‘opening act you have to sit through before Pink Floyd comes on.’ But truffle-sniffing. That could be a full-time hobby on its own for me. I breathed deeply.
And then I stuck my finger in the pot. Rob was still talking,
‘They served it with Manchego cheese in this cool Philadelphia restaurant called Garces Trading Company’ He was whittering away and I wasn’t listening.
It’s a marriage made in heaven. I don’t just mean the relationship between a man who goes to Philadelphia and the woman he brings back exotic sweet treats for. I mean the combination of smoky lavender and earthy truffle, with a melody of ripe fruit sweetness from the honey. Yes, I can see it would work on Manchego, but to be honest it works best of all from your finger, stuck into the jar; again and again.