Mushroom Hunting in Soria

As a family goes mushroom hunting in Soria, in northern Spain, their writer daughter-in-law seeks not only the treasures of the forest, but also human connection.

“Aquí!” I shout, partly out of economy, and partly because in my moment of excitement, I’ve lost the ability to say “I found a bunch of mushrooms” in Spanish. The smooth, rusty heads of three porcinis stare up at me from a mossy patch of forest floor of the Urbión National Hunting Reserve in Navaleno, in the north-central province of Soria, Spain. With my fingers, I grasp the solid stem of the closest mushroom and wiggle it back and forth until it pulls free from the earth, bits of dark soil clinging around its base. I hold it up like a trophy. My husband, Floren, and his mother, Francis, find me. We liberate the remaining mushrooms and place them in the baskets where the rest of the family has already amassed at least four pounds of the prized wild fungus.

We’ve come to Soria—all five Garcias, including Floren and Francis; Floren’s father, Florencio; and his two brothers, Nacho and Jordi; plus Jordi’s girlfriend, Raquel—to celebrate Francis’s seventieth birthday. As is always the case on our annual visits, I am the only American. My Spanish skills, thanks to four years of mostly forgotten high school classes, are roughly equivalent to that of a grade-schooler. I’ve occasionally had the time and money to put toward private tutors, and I’m marginally better than I used to be. But here in the forest, I don’t need to say much to be understood.

On the Road from Madrid to Soria: The Mushroom Hunt Begins

Floren and I drove out early that morning in October, his parents’ suburban, brick-high-rise barrio of Alameda de Osuna, in Madrid’s Bajaras district, receding in the rearview. Within a half hour, we had passed through the ever-present congestion and commotion of the city. After thirty minutes more, I was asleep in the passenger’s seat, the effects of the late night before combining with the sun slanting through the window and the motion of the little red Hyundai to lull me.

When I woke up, on the outskirts of Soria, it was as if we had entered a different place, or at least another season. The N-110 highway was wide, newly painted, and nearly empty. We took the occasional detour around an unfinished stretch of overpass—a sign that as Madrid, Barcelona, and Seville teeter close to the edge of overtourism, Soria is on the verge of becoming the next big destination for Spaniards seeking escape from the cities. The dry, dun-colored landscape of central Spain, with its long stretches of shrubless hills, its broad groves of olive trees, its remnants of centuries-old castillos dotting the landscape, had given way to clay-red escarpments abutting moderate-sized cliffs topped with scrubby, pompom-headed bushes.

In the flatter areas between them, long green grasses with parched yellow tips murmured in the breeze. These were interspersed with large rectangles of cultivated crops, mostly legumes and grains, rendered in alternating stripes of light and dark green from the raking of farm machinery. The air was cooler here. Still, Spain’s intense late-summer heat had dried up most of the fields of sunflowers, their golden crowns tinged with black and weeping downward.

As we neared the Duero River, one of Spain’s famed wine-producing regions, the landscape became denser with growth. Skinny-trunked trees, their long arms exploding into a riot of green leaves, stretched toward the sky, like castaways signaling from a wreck on the beach. As we rounded a corner here and crossed a bridge there, small villages with musical names like San Esteban de Gormaz occasionally popped into view. They seemed to be carved out of the hillsides themselves, with terracotta-tiled churches and medieval stone towers glowering from above. I took pictures from my rolled-down car window. I jotted names in a doll-sized notebook. I asked for Spanish translations of what I was seeing.

Traveling in Spain with a Spaniard, especially one you’re married to, is a double-edged sword. The culture puts a premium on travel from an early age, so many Spaniards are likely to have been to these destinations—“Where the history comes from,” jokes Floren, borrowing from comedian Eddie Izzard—before. They can suss out the best routes and quickly home in on good spots for beer and views of telegenic hillsides, and will probably be able to recount some of their history.

But it’s mostly old hat to them. They won’t share your wonder as you gawp at every porticoed church and crenellated tower, and they definitely won’t pause to admire each crumbling castle. They also have to exercise patience with your incessant questions: What type of tree that is? What is this town’s main industry? What are the spinning, shimmery things on the tops of roofs? (Evergreen oak, viticulture, and roof turbine vents, respectively.) I imagine Floren’s alternately bemused and bored treatment of my traveler’s curiosity is much the same as my semi-tolerant sighs when my mother, who passed away last fall, would launch into a flurry of oddball questions delivered in Rhode Islandese, all dropped r’s and elongated a’s.  

Into the Woods of Spain’s Little-Known (to Americans) Foodie Province

In the northwest corner of Soria, we arrive at Navaleno. The town is home to a robust wild-mushroom following. From the Centro Micológico de Navaleno, which offers classes in mushroom identification and cooking, exhibitions, and children’s workshops, to the annual fall mycology fair, the Castilian love for mushrooms runs so deep, the fungi are even included as button-hatted graphic icons on road signs for what to do while visiting. It’s no surprise, then, that mushroom hunting in Soria is a favorite activity.

We turn off the main street and down a rutted gravel path to the Urbión Regional Hunting Reserve. More than 280,000 acres of forest, the preserve is prime real estate for buscar setas, or searching for mushrooms. A few days before, Jordi called the mycological center to ask for recommendations on good porcini-hunting spots. Whether out of garden-variety surliness or an abundance of protectiveness of Navaleno’s natural prize, the woman on the other end of the phone tartly responded, “You think I know every tree in the forest? Go out and look.”

It wasn’t always this way. While a variety of mushrooms have historically been important in the cuisines of Spain, especially in Basque and Catalan country, Floren remembers only oysters, white buttons and their orange counterpart, níscalos, and the occasional chanterelle crowding grocery store shelves when he was growing up in the late 1970s and early 1980s in Madrid. Nowadays, mushrooms are big business, and even typical Spanish tapas like croquetas have been given the mushroom makeover, with boletes instead of ham or codfish. In many parts of the country, one fungus is prized above all: the porcini.

Spaniards aren’t the only ones who love porcinis. After a few seasons of Soria’s forests being plucked bare by Eastern Europeans, whose skill in hunting the most elusive wild mushrooms is unsurpassed, the Castilian government instituted licensing. You now have to fill out an application, show your passport, and pay a fee to harvest wild mushrooms at Urbión.

Outside the car, small evergreen-colored lizards hotfoot it across the road. Floren consults his mobile phone, where Jordi has sent the family’s GPS location. I pull a light jacket around me as we set off into the woods. Barely off the path, I spot a tall-stalked mushroom with an umbrella-shaped head sunbathing beside a fallen log. It’s not a porcini, but I point to it and say, “There’s one. Is it edible?” Floren clambers down the embankment and confirms my find: Macrolepiota procera, the parasol mushroom, an edible and less-colorful doppelgänger of the psychedelic amanita. He finds another pair nearby and adds them to our bag.

When we meet up with the rest of the family, they’re carrying two mostly full baskets of porcinis. Inspired by their good fortune, we join forces, rambling over dried branches and desiccated pinecones that crackle under foot. The air is still and filled with the scents of earth and pine, and the sound of muted conversation.

I walk beside Francis for a time. Like many of the older mushroom hunters in the forest, she walks slowly, hands clasped behind her back, face inclined downward. She chats in Spanish, about the house we’ll be staying in, the town, and the hunt, enunciating slowly so I can grasp the conversation. Then she asks, “Cómo está tu papa?”—How is your father? I mean to answer that he’s okay, but he’s had some health problems and has to take medicine. But through a couple of unfortunate word substitutions, I actually say something closer to, “He has problems with his greeting and has to take doctors.” She stifles a laugh and nods.

The conversations peter out, and I’m struck by the quiet of the woods, even with groups of people within a few hundred yards of one another. Francis drifts away toward Nacho, who has found a promising patch. Fifty feet or so in front of me, Jordi pokes at the ground with a stick, while Raquel inspects a long mound of grass. Floren and his father are at the far edge of the group, wordlessly searching. I bend frequently, spying small slimy-topped mushrooms, or else tawny rounded shapes that are the exact size of medium porcini heads, but turn out to be lookalike rocks.

We go on like this for a while. I get lost in the chittering of red squirrels and the caw of birds, and the meditative sense that comes with a single-minded focus. Just when I think I’m looking at another rock and give it a lazy jab with my index finger, I feel the slight telltale give of flesh. I call out to the others.

Once our baskets are full—we’ve got quite a bit, but not even close to the 10-kilo-per-person limit—we form a caravan into the center of Navaleno, where the sons have planned a birthday lunch for Francis.

From Mushroom Hunting in Soria to Mushrooms on the Menu

For the occasion, they’ve chosen La Lobita, a Michelin-starred fine-dining restaurant that attracts Spaniards from hours away, just to enjoy their tradition-with-a-twist approach to Castilian cuisine.

Founded in 1952 by Andrés Lucas and Luciana Lobo—the eponymous lobita, “little wolf”—the restaurant is now run by the third generation of female chefs de cuisine. With Elena Lucas at the helm, La Lobita serves a lighter take on food inspired by her grandmother’s traditional recipes. All feature farm-to-table ingredients, many from Elena’s organic garden.

And mushrooms. Lots of them. Depending on the season, La Lobita showcases a dizzying array of forest fungi, from king boletes to black trumpets and black truffles, chanterelles, caesarean amanitas, and morels. When mushrooms aren’t as plentiful in Navaleno, they tap Catalonia, Extremadura, and the Basque Country for varieties like the marzuelo and the perretxiko, or St. George’s mushroom.

We’re ushered by Diego Muñoz, Chef Lucas’s husband and La Lobita’s general manager and sommelier, through elegant sliding panels made of glass and pine, and into a sunny private room. It’s minimally decorated, with a large wood dining table, padded chairs, and a pendant lamp suspended from the ceiling. There’s a sinuous driftwood sculpture in the center of the table. Once we’re seated, with a glass of cava blanca in our hands—“It’s less likely to cause stomach upset before the meal,” Muñoz explains—the meal begins.

Over a span of two and a half hours, we’ll taste fourteen courses, some little more than a bite, and some closer to the size of tapas. (Mine are all vegetarian, a rarity in Spain.) But these are nothing like the tapas I’ve grown accustomed to, the ovals of crispy-on-the-outside, creamy-on-the-inside croquetas de bacalao; crunchy patatas aioli, with their tangy, garlicky sauce; semicured Manchego cheese with crusty bread; slightly oozy tortilla de patatas, Spain’s national treasure of an omelet; or overflowing bowls of fresh green olives.

Even the three choices of bread—a hearty pueblo, or rustic bread; triangles of thin-crusted torta; and hunks of chewy whole grain with raisins—seem different, new, special. “Claro!”—Of course—exclaims Muñoz when I ask if I can try all three. It’s the theme of the day, as we’re served delicate, artfully presented plates that invite interjections of wonder, and near-constant photo snapping from Raquel and me.

There are tiny pillows filled with a mushroom cream and topped with slices of apple. A fat red raspberry piped full of a ganache-like mushroom filling. A terrine of mushroom pâté, styled to look like a tree stump, and served atop crisp shredded beets and with sautéed chanterelles. And La Lobita’s signature, a croqueta made with a truffled egg that squishes, in a happy pool of yellow yolk and olive oil, when cut. I didn’t think any Spanish food could delight me more than socarrat, the crispy, caramelized bits of rice that stick to the bottom of a paella pan, but Elena Lucas is out to prove me wrong with an autumn stew of perfectly tender butternut squash, broccoli, morels, and níscalos.

The chatter around the table grows. I fade in and out of the conversation, comprehending some and misunderstanding more. Floren and his brothers sometimes tire of translating, and when the family lapses into an extended bit of joking and laughter in Spanish, I don’t fault them. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel left out, a spectator rather than a participant. But then a bowl of mushroom dumplings in a light, flavorful broth appears in front of us, and we’re back to the communal experience of the meal.

A pair of small wooden platters heaped with sweets are slid onto the table. We polish off shortbread cookies, thumb-size squares of spiced cake, and toothpick-skewered chunks of dark chocolate that bloom in the mouth with the flavor of violets. Over little bowls of ice cream, we sing “Happy Birthday” in Spanish to Francis. I sing along; I know the words to this one.

Afterward, at our rented apartment, Francis unpacks the mushrooms and lines them up by size on the Formica table in the kitchen, evidence from the world’s most cheerful crime scene. With a paring knife, she shaves off the dirtiest parts of their dense stems, plus any spots that look like they may have been snacks for hungry woodland critters, and chatters amiably with her sons. Whereas my own family back in the states probably would have retreated to separate corners after so much together time, when there’s food, the Garcias are usually gathering.

Finding Forest Fungi & Reconnecting at Home

We return home to the Hudson Valley a few days later, a handful of porcinis tucked under the socks in our suitcase. Floren dries them in a dehydrator and packs them in a gallon zipper bag, to be portioned out throughout the winter, when we typically eat meals while watching political comedy shows, a fleece blanket tossed over our laps. Here, I’m the occasional translator, explaining unusual idioms and obscure pop-culture references. It doesn’t escape me that he lives day-to-day in my comfort zone, or that our meals, while still one of the highlights of the day, have a different feeling. It’s not better or worse than how we eat as a family in Spain, just different.

With fall in its earliest stages, the gold and auburn leaves already setting the Taconic Mountains ablaze, we head out in the morning to look for the last of the season’s mushrooms—honey or lion’s mane, maybe some maitake. As usual, Floren’s long strides have taken him out in front of me. He’s halfway up a semisteep incline when I spot a small group of round oatmeal-colored mushroom heads just off the trail. I bend down, slice the stem at ground level, and turn it upside down. The tiny downward-pointing “teeth” confirm my find: Hydnum repandum, also known as hedgehogs. “Here!” I shout. “I found a bunch of mushrooms.”

An abbreviated version of this story first appeared in the September 2020 issue of Travel + Leisure.

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