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By Celine Jeanine, Assistant Manager at Sam’s Brasserie
I grew up in centre of France where mushrooms grow in great quantity. The first autumnal rains were always well received as we knew they meant it was the beginning of the mushroom season. Girolles, ceps, lactaires and many other fine forest treats would be on the menu for the next two months.
We had mushroom hunting class at school, usually during September and October on Fridays, so we could take our harvest home for the weekend. I would then go mushroom hunting again on a Saturday or Sunday with my dad. I remember being very proud of knowing the Latin name of every mushroom I was able to recognise and telling him which ones were edible or not. I realise now that he probably knew all that already!
20 years later, although every day my nail varnish matches my top and I spend far too much money on make up, I still enjoy mushroom picking in mucky woods, surrounded by spiders. Maybe it’s not too dissimilar from buying the perfect outfit - you have to consider the season, the colour, the place…
It’s a warm Sunday afternoon in Kent, following a day of heavy rain. Summer is over and the annual mushroom hunting ritual is about to happen again. We all seem to be a bit over excited!
I get my equipment ready: Wellies, cap, my mushroom knife…. I will grab a stick once I’m in the woods. I ask for plastic bags when I notice that everyone else takes a plastic tray or a basket. I make up an excuse and say “in France we use plastic bags to separate the different types” – but it’s really because you don’t want to tell the other foragers what’s around! We all have a favourite spot and it’s a secret you can only share with your family.
After a 20 minute drive we finally get to our ‘hunting ground’. Birch, larch and chestnut trees and big bushes of holly. Not what I’m used to in France where there would be plenty of oak but there’s such a strong smell of mushroom that I’m still confident I will have a cep omelette or a wild mushroom soup tonight.
They all start picking bay bolete, slippery jacks, winter chanterelles and amethyst deceivers. I’m getting a bit worried, I’d better stay away from colourful mushrooms - they don’t look safe to me. I decide to focus on one target: The penny bun aka cep or porcini.
I grew up in centre of France where mushrooms grow in great quantity. The first autumnal rains were always well received as we knew they meant it was the beginning of the mushroom season. Girolles, ceps, lactaires and many other fine forest treats would be on the menu for the next two months.
We had mushroom hunting class at school, usually during September and October on Fridays, so we could take our harvest home for the weekend. I would then go mushroom hunting again on a Saturday or Sunday with my dad. I remember being very proud of knowing the Latin name of every mushroom I was able to recognise and telling him which ones were edible or not. I realise now that he probably knew all that already!
20 years later, although every day my nail varnish matches my top and I spend far too much money on make up, I still enjoy mushroom picking in mucky woods, surrounded by spiders. Maybe it’s not too dissimilar from buying the perfect outfit - you have to consider the season, the colour, the place…
It’s a warm Sunday afternoon in Kent, following a day of heavy rain. Summer is over and the annual mushroom hunting ritual is about to happen again. We all seem to be a bit over excited!
I get my equipment ready: Wellies, cap, my mushroom knife…. I will grab a stick once I’m in the woods. I ask for plastic bags when I notice that everyone else takes a plastic tray or a basket. I make up an excuse and say “in France we use plastic bags to separate the different types” – but it’s really because you don’t want to tell the other foragers what’s around! We all have a favourite spot and it’s a secret you can only share with your family.
After a 20 minute drive we finally get to our ‘hunting ground’. Birch, larch and chestnut trees and big bushes of holly. Not what I’m used to in France where there would be plenty of oak but there’s such a strong smell of mushroom that I’m still confident I will have a cep omelette or a wild mushroom soup tonight.
They all start picking bay bolete, slippery jacks, winter chanterelles and amethyst deceivers. I’m getting a bit worried, I’d better stay away from colourful mushrooms - they don’t look safe to me. I decide to focus on one target: The penny bun aka cep or porcini.
After 45 minutes luck’s not on my side and I only have two penny buns in my bag whilst everybody else has got a fair bit of everything in their trays. Then I come across twenty girolles (or chanterelles) within a few minutes and my good mood is back as I love them.
I get a funny feeling when I pick mushrooms, I can almost taste them when they are in my hands. Three more penny buns, I’m satisfied now and we can leave. We could stay a bit longer but I’m really looking forward to my dinner!
I get a funny feeling when I pick mushrooms, I can almost taste them when they are in my hands. Three more penny buns, I’m satisfied now and we can leave. We could stay a bit longer but I’m really looking forward to my dinner!
