My Army buddy in Germany (who was a Polish immigrant)knew how to pick them. We foraged once in Hohenfels to put some mushrooms in our Ramen Noodle Soup. Everyone I picked, he said was poison. He knew the good ones and our soup was delicious.
My dad used to pick wild mushrooms, I asked him how he knew what was good. He said he didn’t, but his mom told him what wasn’t when he was a kid. He is 89.
My paternal grandfather who had come over from Slovakia (when it was still part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire) would work his way through the woods of western Pennsylvania with a basket knowing exactly which ones to pick and which to bypass. I would have better luck playing Russian roulette with one empty chamber.