BLACK GOLD. That’s what farmers call the peppercorns that choke the jungles of Kerala, in southwestern India. Grown throughout the tropics, pepper is the world’s most common spice. But the best and most expensive—from jet black Malabar to fragrant brown Tellicherry and the extremely rare fl oral-scented red— comes from here, piper nigrum’s birthplace, where clusters of the berries are still picked and sorted by hand under the equatorial sun.

I discovered red pepper while in Kerala in the mid- ’90s. It was January, and the region’s twin monsoon seasons (essential for a high-quality harvest) had come and gone. Inland from the coast of Malabar on a small hillside plantation, rows of short wooden poles supported a warp and woof of pepper vines with glossy heart-shaped leaves. Their green, yellow and red berry clusters resembled overgrown double helices of DNA.

I hadn’t given much thought to pepper until then—black or other wise. I was amazed to discover that a single vine could yield four kinds, depending on when the clusters were harvested. Immature greens were freeze-dried or brined to preserve their grassy, fruity fl avour. Riper yellow berries were either soaked and hulled to reveal their pungent but less spicy bone-coloured core—white pepper—or laid out on the hot pavement after the morning traf- fi c rush, where they shrivelled jet black. But the sweet red corns still clinging in clusters fascinated me most. As they ripened on the vine, they became increasingly aromatic, even as birds picked them over and the berries began to rot. Fewer than a thousand pounds are produced annually in all of India, and like gold, true red pepper commands a high price— a kilo can fetch $500.

You could call pepper the original culinary status symbol. After his Indian conquest, Alexander the Great introduced it to Europe; it has since driven commerce, launched exploration and even doubled as currency. When nouvelle cuisine popularized green and pink peppercorns in the 1970s and ’80s, gourmet pepper mixes became a benchmark of good taste; a little later, some clever soul remembered that freshly milled pepper was far superior to the insipid grey-brown sand sold in bulk at the grocery store, and the (sometimes absurd) size of a restaurant’s pepper mill came to signify quality.

These days, it’s the breadth of your collection that matters. Obscure peppers and pepper substitutes that were popular centuries ago are commanding a pretty price at gourmet shops: long pepper (once more common than black) from Bali and South Asia, grains of paradise from Ghana, pink peppercorns from France, Szechuan berries from China. Even among basic blacks, the choice can be overwhelming: do you prefer organic Sri Lankan, gourmet Vietnamese or ripe Tellicherry? Jonathan Gushue, who counts seven varieties in his Langdon Hall pantry, is particularly fond of camphor-like Szechuan, which takes on a smoky aspect when infused in ice cream. He serves it on a fi g tart with honeyed tobacco syrup. “It’s pretty much endless, what you can do with it,” says Gushue. When I worked in the kitchen at Avalon, we poached Szechuan pepper with strawberries in a simple syrup; at home I dryroast it with salt to sprinkle on anything vaguely Asian.

Splendido’s David Lee is partial to Indonesian Muntok, a white pepper that smells, implausibly, like an elephant cage but works pungent magic on game and well-aged steak. Gushue and Lee get their spice fix at the Cheese Boutique, which sells the most aromatic collection of peppers in the city, both by variety and in kits. Chef Stefan’s Epicurean Pepper Collection ($79.95) features 12 canisters, from Borneo’s Sarawak white to cubeb berries from Indonesia. “I’m hooked on long pepper,” says Nova Scotia–based chef turned entrepreneur Stefan Czapalay. At once sharp (tasting of citrus) and aromatic (with hints of cinnamon, allspice and mace), the oneinch catkins are “sweet and subtle, but still piquant—perfect for braised lamb.”

After months of eating long-simmered curries in India, I came back to Toronto craving all things raw. I pounded my evershrinking supply of red corns with my little mortar and pestle, to scatter on petals of tuna and beef carpaccio. I never tired of its potpourri bouquet, or of its Zelig-like qualities: marinated with chicken and lemon, it gave the citrus an exotic twist; on lamb, it tasted sweet. It took 10 years to fi nd a resupply; when I did, money was no object. The spice was as good as gold.