>>21450200I swear, nothing boils my blood like people calling champignons “portabella.” It’s always the same type—some smug, apron-wearing kitchen amateur who watched one episode of MasterChef and now thinks they’ve become the mushroom whisperer. You hand them a basic Agaricus bisporus—the most common cultivated mushroom on Earth—and they look you dead in the eye and say, “Oooh, nice portabellas.”
No. I don’t have portabellas. I have champignons. White ones. Brown ones. Baby bellas if you're drunk on marketing buzzwords. That sad grilled cap you're worshipping isn’t some rare forest jewel—it’s a grown-ass button mushroom. It didn’t descend from the heavens. It wasn’t kissed by a Tuscan breeze. It’s the same damn species, just with a tan and a mortgage.
There is no “portabella tree.” They’re not born in artisanal moss beds. It’s branding. A scam. A culinary catfish to make you feel fancy for overcooking fungus at your 4th of July BBQ. Meanwhile, I’m out in the forest soaked in rain, boots in mud, cutting birch brackets and spotting chanterelles while you’re out here grilling glorified pizza toppings.
I’ve cloned pink oysters in petri dishes, fruited shiitake on oak logs, and can ID a death cap faster than you can say “umami.” But somehow, Chad from accounting thinks he’s mushroom royalty because he pan-seared a leathery brown dome and slapped it on ciabatta.
These people strut like they’re the bastard child of Marco Pierre White and a can of mushroom soup. Stop it. You’re not enlightened. You’re embarrassing. Just call it what it is—a champignon in its final form—and leave the real fungi to the people who actually know what the hell they’re doing.
