Is there anything as lovely as the pfft-pfft-pfft sound of a truffle being shaved? The truffle shaver is an object of pure mechanical joy - designed for one thing only (fuck you multi-use kitchen tools!) - to shower food with blessed, grown up, unalloyed pleasure.
White truffles, raw egg yolk, creamy risotto vs. tournandos rossini with plethora of black truffles and foie. Ying and Yang. Ebony and Ivory. LA and New York. One heady, rich, yet delicately refined, the other forcefully and demandingly delicious.
And these were only two of the six course we had that evening. It felt like such decadence - the only possible way to end the night was to bludgeon baby seals and smoke cigars made by Cuban child labour. So we did.
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