The flavor of a white truffle, which might be described as boldly opaque, is less the point than its intoxicating aroma. A wave of earth and must and thick air hits your nostrils and knocks you silly. It's an ancient smell, of cellars, and of things kept down in cellars, forgotten, left to molder and pleasantly rot. As things to eat go, I realize that this does not sound all that appealing. But as I said, nothing about white truffles makes sense. Somehow, inexplicably, gourmands fall madly in love with their heady, odoriferous, nostril- filling, head-swelling stench. And they'll pay dearly for it.

Even less refined, and certainly less wealthy, types, such as myself, whose tastes tend to run more toward barbecue and cheesesteak sandwiches, can fall for these babies, I suppose in the same way that even an ugly pauper can appreciate the beauty of an Ashley Judd. However I came to love white truffles, I came to love them bad.

Which explains why I'm here and why my bliss is practically salivating.

I arrive in Acqualagna two days before the opening of the eight-day festival and repair immediately to a well-regarded restaurant just outside of town for preliminaries - ordering dishes with shaved white truffles.

My first dish arrives, dusted with a light snowfall of white truffle shards. I breathe in, anticipating a gorgeous blast of earthen stench. Nothing. Eventually, a faint scent curls feebly upward from the plate. The same thing happens with the next dishes. I'm crushed. Here I am, ground zero for my bliss, and this is what I get?

An owner of the restaurant explains that it's a bad year for truffles.

A bad year for truffles? I didn't know truffles had bad years. I hope she's lying. I hope she got some bad truffles and she's just pawning them off on the dumb American.