`Is there anything I should bring back from London?" I asked my wife, before going over to the British Cheese Awards. "Truffle oil," she replied.
You never can predict what my wife will say.
Later that day, in Knightsbridge, a Harvey Nichols extracts more than a tenner from me for a miniscule bottle - 1.85 fluid ounces, to be precise - of white truffle oil. I would wince, if only wincing at the price of things wasn't utterly verboten in Nichols's store. I wince inwardly. Later that day, eating dinner in The Square, my companion's daube of beef arrives, with a generous puddle of truffle-oil mashed potato completing the plate. I have a taste of chef Philip Howard's concoction, and decide that truffle-oil mashed potato is the greatest thing under the sun - viciously, luridly sexy nursery food for adults. The minute I get home, I will make it.
The key to perfect mashed potatoes, I think, lies in not overworking the potato, which breaks down the starch and turns it gluey. This means creating the most ethereal mash using a potato ricer, and then adding in the puree ingredients, and not working them too much.
So, I peel the spuds - some Records - cut them into pieces and boil them until they are ready. I drain off the water, then put the potatoes on the lowest possible heat for a few minutes with the lid slightly ajar to dry them out even further. At the same time, I have lightly crushed a clove of garlic, and placed it in a saucepan with some milk, to infuse the flavours, heating the milk gently. When it is warm, I sploosh in some good olive oil so that it just warms through in the mixture.
When the spuds are ready, I pass them through the potato ricer into a warmed bowl, the sort of chore which threatens to be crushingly time-consuming but is actually quite fun. When all the potatoes are riced, I gently beat in the strained milk-olive oil mixture, just until I have brought the liquid and solid ingredients into a smooth mass. Finally, when I have the texture I want, I season the spuds, then add in a tiny amount of white truffle oil, and stir it through.
It is delightful, worth every ridiculously expensive penny. My five-year-old daughter eats an entire plate of it. I look at her scoffing it, and I can foresee the future: "Like me to bring you back some Barbie clothes from London?" "No Dad. Just bring some truffle oil." Oh dear.