International gourmets have been known to plan their travels so that they will be in the right spot at the right time—in Paris when the fresh truffles come to the restaurants, in country houses in Scotland when the first grouse arc shot on the moors, in the fine restaurants of our own East Coast when the Delaware Rivet shad tome in. During the short time these gastronomic jewels, and others of the same sort, are in season, they are regarded with an appreciation that approaches reverence. And well they might be, because in their proper setting of an appropriate meal, the regional and temporal specialties of a country can lift its cookery to new and savory heights.
Since these esoterica are most often consumed locally, their preparation is likely to be something of a mystery to outsiders who happen to find them available. Nothing could be more happy than the solution to such a culinary mystery, for a treat is surely in store for the adventurous cook.
Morilles, called morels in this country, are such a rare and precious delicacy. The preparation of these fungi, when May's sunshine starts coaxing them through the spongy soil they love. is bound to puzzle many a hungry gourmet. Although they are indigenous to France, morels do grow in the United States and have been found in such diverse locations as Montana, Missouri, and Connecticut. They would undoubtedly be as popular here as they are abroad if they were only better known.
Morilles are found all over France but they flourish in greatest abundance where the terrain is rolling and hilly and the low-lying valleys are patterned with meadows made fertile by leaf mold which ages of rains have washed down from the hills. It is along the edges of these meadows, shaded a bit by en croaching woodlands, or along the hedgerows which divide the fields that morilles are found. When violets are sending forth their fragrance and lily-of-the-valley spikeleyts tremble in the soft spring breeze, when the hedges arc laced with the pink and white of sweet-smelling hawthorne, then is the time to poke among the leaves and brambles to uncover the mushrooms of the spring, morilles.
In Alsace, where the best and probably the greatest number of morilles are found, every farmer eagerly watches for the first to appear, aware that he has a short season for business, although a lucrative one while it lasts. All the youngsters of the family, as well as the farm helpers, search for them and pack the baskets that are shipped daily to Faris. Those at the other end of the line, the chefs in Paris, for instance, watch for the first morilles to appear with the same eagerness. And these chefs make careful purchases, buying only as many as they are sure will be used that day, because the good chefs believe that stale morilles arc worse than none.
Morilles resemble mushrooms but come in the spring instead of the fall and are the only wild fungus that grows in the spring. Unlike fall mushrooms, which should never be picked by any but an expert, morilles have no poisonous varieties. They look different from mushrooms, lacking the flat cap and having instead one that is cone-shaped. And the surface is covered with tiny pockets like an empty honeycomb. There are two kinds of morilles, noire and blonde. Les morilles noires arc not actually black but rather a very dark brown, and les morilles blondes are not actually blond but more of a café au lait color. The argument about which kind is better never seems to be settled, some gourmets preferring the darker ones, others insisting that the lighter variety are more delectable—just as some gentlemen prefer brunettes, other blondes! Although all people do not recognize it, there is a distinct difference in flavor between the two kinds of morilles. The darker variety is more full-flavored, the lighter kind subtler and more delicate. But all connoisseurs agree that morilles are the finest of all the fine mushrooms found in France.
Morilles have always been considered a perfect means of enhancing the flavor of fine fish. They are often used with fresh-water fish, many of which are at their best in the spring when the streams have opened after an ice-choked winter—just when morilles are in season, too. I was reading the other day that fish cookery was selected as the subject for the annual Prix Culinaire Prosper Montagné, the prize established some years ago to encourage young chefs to keep up and bring new glory to the high standards of French cuisine. It was interesting to note that one of the ten prize-winning dishes was truite farcie au brocbet el morilles, boned trout stuffed with a mixture of pike and morels. The judges called it “a real triumph of our Provincial cooking,” and I could almost taste its savoriness as I read about it.
Springtime has long been the signal for the haul monde to descend upon Paris from all corners of the earth, to stay until the Grand Prix is run off at Longchumps. Then they all start packing their trunks for the exodus to mountains and seashore. But while these lucky ones are in Paris, they know what delicacies to look for. So it was in Paris. more than forty years ago, that I learned, while a young commit chef at the Hotel Bristol, how to prepare moriiles. And I sty prepare advisedly because, as I will explain, there is more to consider than the mere cooking. If morilles are not properly Cleaned, they are about as attractive as unwashed spinach. M. Jules Tissier, the chef at the Bristol-and incidentally one of the finest—was most meticulous about moriiles. He would use only the small, dark ones and insisted on having those with very pointed caps. He would never order them in advance. Each morning someone was sent to the rue St. Honoré to La Maison Loches, a house which carried the best quality of vegetables and fruits in Paris. Nor was the kitchen porter trusted with this errand. A commit chef would have to leave what he was doing to go after morilles—and how annoyed he was. But how many springs in more recent years have I wished there was a Maison Loches on Madison or Lexington Avenue where I could find a little basket of freshly picked morilles to bring back to the hotel … especially on mornings when my fish dealer sent in some unusually fine trout or other delicate spring fish.
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