Gourmet Gold:
Chanterelle Hunters Scour Hillsides for Buried Treasure

Ben was reluctant to tell us exactly where we were going ahead of time. "Just be ready at 7 a.m.," he said. And so, early on this cold January morning, we set out on the long drive to one of Ben’s favorite spots for picking the elusive chanterelle mushroom.

My friend Ben Baily is an avid mushroom hunter, a hobby he pursues in his time off from his job as executive chef of the Palace of the Legion of Honor Museum Cafe in San Francisco. For years, I’ve been entertained by Ben’s tales of valor—stories of pure machismo, of nightmare cases of poison oak, of close calls with the authorities and the wrong kind of mushrooms. And I’ve listened enviously to the rare tales of glory—stories of small fortunes made when a group hits the jackpot and brings home veritable mountains of wild mushrooms to sell to local restaurants for large sums of cash. After years of begging, I finally convinced Ben to take me and two other first-timers, Doug and Sean, on an introduction to "mushrooming."

After close to an hour of driving on a winding route that seems designed to confuse us, we park at the end of a nondescript fire road. Gray light spreads across the winter sky as we trudge up the muddy road, which quickly turns into a hiking trail. In a wet morning haze, we ascend a steep hill through terrain that alternates between pine forest and open pastures. "It’s not far," Ben assures us.  "I think it’s just around the next turn," he says, repeatedly, as we continue around yet another turn, and another. "There it is!" he says, at long last, pointing to a grove of oak trees on the next ridge over.

Picking wild mushrooms is a hobby for Ben, but for some, it’s big business. The seventy or so edible varieties that grow in the Bay Area require a delicate ecological habitat and are next to impossible to cultivate. Chanterelles are among the most prized, retailing for $15 to $30 a pound. Because wild mushrooms are so hard to come by and bring such a high price, a secretive culture of "mushroom hunters" has sprung up, an ad hoc society of people who hunt for wild mushrooms to sell to restaurants, supermarkets and brokers. Competition is fierce and the most lucrative harvesting locations are highly guarded secrets. Having heard fascinating stories from this mysterious subculture, I feel privileged to find myself among its clandestine ranks.

Like children on our first Easter egg hunt, the three of us rookies are eager to start our foraging. We appear blasé as we listen to Ben’s instructions about how to search for mushrooms without damaging the delicate environment, while in our heads, bountiful visions of chanterelles dance like sugar plums. Our only goal for the day, we agree nonchalantly, is simply to bring back enough mushrooms for dinner.

"Eating them is the most important thing to me," Ben says. "The money and the physical  exercise are bonuses, but in the end, I just love eating mushrooms. And no mushrooms taste better than ones you’ve picked yourself."

Swallowing my pride, I ask the one question I know is on everyone’s mind. “How do we know the mushrooms we pick won’t kill us?” I ask, trying to sound cool.

“Chanterelles are really easy to identify because of their bright yellow color,” Ben says matter-of-factly. Chanterelles are characterized by a fruity flavor and a scent reminiscent of dried apricots. They have pale flesh, a distinctive funnel shape and forked gills. “There really aren’t any other mushrooms that look like them.” After pausing for a moment, he adds, “Oh, well, except the false chanterelle, but that’s not poisonous, it just doesn’t taste very good. You can spot them pretty easily because their flesh is spongier. Plus they grow under redwood trees rather than oaks, or on rotting wood.”

We continue our climb, quietly relieved by Ben’s reassuring answer—until Ben breaks our comfortable silence. “Actually,” he says, squinting and nodding his head, “Come to think of it, there is the Jack O’Lantern. Those are definitely poisonous.” We stop and turn to face him, waiting for more information.

“Well, how we will know we’re not picking Jack O’Lanterns?” I ask, sounding a bit more irritated than I intend.

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