Woodland treasure
By Daniel Butler, author and forager
Chanterelles are a summer highlight for the forager. Every year the first glimpse of these beautiful golden flutes dotted across the woodland floor sends the heart racing. Despite their colour, however, they can be surprisingly hard to spot and even when abundant they tend to slowly come into focus rather than stand out.
Despite their colour, chanterelles can be surprisingly hard to spot
(Image: author’s own)
In England and Wales it is most often associated with broadleaves, particularly birch, beech and hazel, but in Scotland it grows in profusion in almost any woodland. The glut north of the Border is so great that it is the only British wild mushroom to be commercially harvested on any scale. Sadly, few are destined for British plates. A few may end up on the menu in up-market West Coast eateries, but in general, as with lobsters, langoustines and venison, most are destined for European markets.
Foragers jealously guard all their patches, but when it comes to chanterelles this is especially true. In the early ‘90s the woods of Oregon rang with gunfire in what became known as the ‘chanterelle wars’. Rival gangs of commercial pickers battled over prime patches and two pickers died before a licensing system restored calm.
A Welsh chanterelle growing among fallen holly leaves
(Image: author’s own)
There is good reason for the possessiveness. Chanterelles are not especially expensive (the wholesale price tends to hover around £20 a kilo), but they are still a gastronomic highlight with discerning chefs using the yellow cornets to flavour and decorate highly-priced dishes.
They may be most frequent in Scotland but further south, they are locally common in damp coppices, generally first appearing in about June and flushing after rain through to the first frost in autumn. Despite being widespread, most people walk past these golden eruptions, because while they appear almost garish in the hand, when surrounded by fallen leaves, they disappear into the woodland floor.
The chanterelle’s scientific name, Cantharellus cibarius, comes from the Greek kantharos (goblet) and the Latin cibus (food), but ironically its British common name is a case of mistaken identity. It says much about Anglo-Saxon reservations over wild fungi that as the word made its short hop across the Channel it transferred from a little brown flute (Cantharellus infundibuliformis) to its more familiar yellow cousin.
Despite its size, hauls can be substantial
(Image: author’s own)
Actually, we should call our chanterelle a girolle (which, incidentally, is how they are known to the wholesale and restaurant trades). To the French the chanterelle is what we call a winter or trumpet chanterelle.
Regardless of names, these are among the easier fungi to identify with certainty. Like most wild mushrooms, they do not grow regularly, but start as little buttons pushing out of the soil on stalks, before the caps spread out into an irregular funnel perched on a deeply-veined stalk.
False (left) and ‘true’ chanterelles (right) are easy to identify when side by side
(Image: author’s own)
Another tell-tale indicator is the scent. Although faint, a basketful of chanterelles has a distinct whiff of apricots that is lacking from the main source of confusion: the false chanterelle (Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca). The latter is not generally regarded as edible (although there is disagreement over whether this means undistinguished or mildly poisonous). It is an altogether less substantial fungus, with a thin stalk and usually sporting a much more garish orange colour. Its gills are sharply ridged and if one traces these up the stalk, they divide again and again until they reach the cap - a bit like a branch splitting into ever smaller twigs. In contrast those of the true chanterelle are thicker and much more irregular, rather like the channels cut by water running across mud: splitting only to rejoin their neighbours. Finally, the false chanterelle is always found in coniferous woodland where it grows on rotting softwood and decaying pine needles.
It is certainly well worth searching for the real McCoy because it has one of the most exquisite flavours of any wild mushroom. It is slightly bitter when raw and when cooked its apricot aroma lingers on, working particularly well with dairy- or egg-based dishes. Try it lightly fried in butter with a little garlic, declarifying the pan with a little vermouth and serving on a slice of toasted brioche with a garnish of chopped parsley. One taste and you too will be scouring your woods through the summer for these little golden treasures. Strike lucky and you too will be guarding your patch as jealously as any professional.