The next day for lunch I go to one of the finest restaurants in all of Italy, for-tuitously located about a half-hour away. The owner, when told of the previous night's misfortune, assures me that his truffles are carefully chosen and no such problem will befall me. He recommends a truffle antipasti tasting, beginning with truffles on toast. Simultaneously wary and enthusiastic, I say yes. These truffles are better, a characteristic wave of fungi perfume roiling up, cloudlike, from the plates. Yet they are still not as good as I've had. Which baffles me: This, the autumn harvest, is the right time and Acqualagna is definitely the right place. So what gives?

The next morning, I am among the first to arrive at the festival. The town is truffle crazy. A statue of a huge gold-painted truffle with angels flying around it is set high above the town square. Stores advertise truffle sausage, truffle pasta, truffle oil, truffle cream, truffle butter, truffle cheese, truffle risotto mix, even truffle mayonnaise. Truffle hunters wander around like celebrities, their truffle spades slung over their shoulders, their specially trained dogs by their sides. As the town begins to swell with people, I wander over to a booth and order a plate of cheese and cream pasta with white truffles. The flavor is so weak, I toss it in a trash can after a few bites.

Still, I can't let go of my bliss or the inherent idea that bliss, by its nature, is never disappointing. I stop at some booths and inspect a few truffles. Truffles vary in size from about the equivalent of the top of an index finger to a big man's fist. Some are oval and smooth, while others are creased and gnarly. They're firm, and look a little like potatoes. I smell a few fresh truffles, which is the way to test their quality. I'm careful to select one out of the seller's hand and sniff it away from the other truffles, as the collective smell of them can make any one of them seem stronger than it actually is.