The Roman god Janus, who gave his name to January, was always depicted with two faces looking in opposite directions. As the god of thresholds he presided over the winter solstice, one face turned to the future, the other to the past. Right now I feel a bit like him: I'm not sure whether I should be looking forward to the great meals that Iintend to eat in the future, or whether I should be drooling in remembrance over the great meals I ate in the past.

This last year brought me some wonderful food, but one dish stands out above all others - truffle salad. In the Italian valley where my family come from truffles are reasonably abundant and are gathered with determination. Men and dogs are on the mountainsides with rakes and bags in the early morning light, combing the ground under the oak and beech to find their prize. Even in the peak of their season these strange, subterranean fungi command high prices earning a passable living for those who collect them. Because they're expensive they tend to be used sparingly; grated with reverence over pasta or risotto or sliced thinly to flavour meats. In truth, though always grateful and flattered when I've been presented with a truffle-flavoured meal, I never really saw them as a gastronomic Grail. Good yes, to kill for no. This attitude changed in the summer. I can even remember the date - August 16th.

One of my oldest friends in Italy, Nicola Celestino, is a doctor who has a practice three days a week in Campoli, the truffle capital of my valley. Grateful patients give him truffles and he always has them in abundance. He is currently living alone, and consequently his cooking has become minimalist - only simple dishes are part of his repertoire. On the 16th of August he had asked us for a meal. I expected, and got, nothing complicated. The first course was slices of mountain ham and bread from a wood-fired oven washed down with Nicola's own cabernet/merlot çepage - terrific, but staple fare. It was the next course that changed my attitudes. He arrived at the table with a large bowl in which he had mixed three ingredients: half a kilo of finely cubed fresh Parmesan, half a kilo of chopped black truffles and some of his own newly pressed olive oil. That's it; that's the recipe. It was the closest I've come to culinary nirvana, a staggeringly good mix of tastes; a dish for the gods. It was while I ate my way silently and single-mindedly through the truffle salad that the truth dawned - truffles are all about quantity. In amounts that would make a deli owner delight in the merry sound of cash registers, truffles take on a new dimension. From subtle flavourings they become sublime in large amounts.

Unless you happen to know Nicola there are only two ways that you can enjoy this salad. Either you can be very rich and buy lots of truffles, or you can comb oak forests in Ireland where I am told they exist. With a little luck a truffle salad could be yours.