Inside the town hall it was going crazy. Pumped up, rich, hostile French people charged from stall to stall staring at what appeared to be rabbit droppings. We've been in France long enough now not to be surprised at anything. We thought we'd better join in.
"You have to sniff them. I've seen people sniff them." Said Rose.
I picked up a rabbit dropping and sniffed it. It was unbearable. "I'll take it!" I commanded.
"That will be 87 euros." Said the woman behind the table.
"I won't take it. I refuse to pay more than 50 euros for a rabbit dropping." I commanded.
"It's a truffle." Said the woman behind the table.
"No. You're a truffle." I responded, brilliantly.
A bell rang to signify there was only 10 minutes left of the truffle sale. The place went insane. It was truffle fever. I may one day make a novelty 70's funk album called truffle fever. Caught in the moment, we identified the smallest truffle we could find and purchased it for 30 euros after ensuring it wasn't a rabbit dropping.
Now we have a truffle. It sits glowering at me when I open the fridge - a constant reminder of the day I saw a pig on a string.