I’m at The Green Truffle, an Italian deli in London’s Bethnal Green. Natalino Murano places in front of me a small plate of smoked buffalo mozzarella. The perfumed skin gives way to a melting creaminess that smears over a slice of sourdough.
A few moments later, his business partner Stefano Dellutri brings out a stronger number called “horse cheese.” It’s not actually from a horse, the name derives from the nub on its top that attaches to a string, allowing the cheese to mature from a post in the Campanian sun.
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Then, we move onto “cave cheese,” deep-set with minerality. Then hot nduja sausage on a dry cracker, so soft it’s almost spreadable. And then the lardo.
But I’m not here for the cheese or charcuterie or bread, as delicious as they are. I’m at the month-old deli to talk to Murano and Dellutri about its namesake: truffles. Winter and summer, black and white—those coveted balls of flavour that elevate almost any dish.
The Green Truffle owners Natalino Murano and Stefano Dellutri. All photos by the author.
The pair come from a region in southern Italy called Irpinia. Naples and the Amalfi Coast aren’t far away, but Murano and Dellutri’s home is hidden behind mountains inland—prime black truffle country. Both moved to the UK to pursue careers in hospitality. Now, they have finally achieved their dream of opening a deli that showcases the best of Irpinia.
“I’m from, you would say, a farm,” says Murano. “My father, he used to take me foraging in the woods—we know how to find things. Truffles, mushrooms, boar, anything. Growing up, I’d eat black truffles like apples. My father was not rich, but would have shaved truffles on his pasta once a week. Here, it’s seen as some sort of luxury. I think it’s bullshit. You shouldn’t have to be rich to enjoy these foods. They’re for everyone.”
The market for their produce might be highly seasonal, with some large winter truffles fetching up to £200,000, but Murano and Dellutri see no reason for the fungi not to be affordable in London. They’re on a mission to democratise truffles.
“If you just went to these places and take these truffles, they won’t let you, they’ll set your car on fire,” warns Murano of the rarer Italian varieties.
Indeed, truffles can be big business. Fortunately Murano and Dellutri have the contacts back home to source the best fungi at reasonable prices, but tell me that the industry as a whole is “complicated,” with some unscrupulous traders selling with unfair markups.
“The truffle business is a bloody dodgy one,” says Murano. “You know, it’s complicated—the way people get the truffles, the way they’re sold.”
The Green Truffle’s dealings are wholly legitimate, however. Murano’s father trains the dogs that hunt the truffles and has years of selling experience.
“We can get a good price,” Dellutri says. “There are people who find the truffles, the farmers, the people on the land. And they have a relationship with merchants who sell them. These markets are crazy and beautiful. You have to know what you’re doing. And we do—and so we don’t have to rip off in our shop.”
Olive oil and pasta on sale at The Green Truffle.
The price they sell the truffles at is dependant on size and type, so is hard to quantify. Both men mention that truffles today are slightly less plentiful than when they were young: “The climate is fucked, we don’t know when it’s summer or winter so much.”
But if anyone’s able to ship these fragrant Italian nuggets to British shores, it’s Murano and Dellutri.
“We like truffles in so many ways,” says Murano. “We sometimes grate it on ricotta, cover with Parmesan and breadcrumbs, and then deep-fry. We like truffle omelettes, or we put it on pizza. Anything, really. These dishes are ingrained in our families and in the region.”
Bethnal Green seems like a long way from the food utopia of southern Italy described by Murano, but he and Dellutri enjoy selling to a more diverse customer base in East London. Several Italian locals also stop by to chat on my visit.
“There are more here than you might think,” says Murano.
Alongside the truffles, Murano and Dellutri also stock a type of tomato known as piennolo, only found growing on Mount Vesuvius. They also show me their fresh mozzarella, flown in at 24 hour’s notice and produced in balls so large Murano affectionately refers to each one as a “big tit.”
And then there’s the extra virgin olive oil that took Dellutri a month to get his hands on.
“The man who sells it doesn’t speak English, or Italian really,” explains Dellutri. “He talks in a local dialect—a mix of Italian, Spanish, Latin. He’s old. We know him and know his oil is the best, so we asked to take it here and for him to create English labels. Why would he, though? He doesn’t give a fuck about England. He has his olive trees, his olives, and his oil. It took us a long time to negotiate.”
But happily for East London, they did.
This story was originally published on MUNCHIES UK on July 10, 2016.
