Shopping at Dean & Deluca's Heaven Branch

My truffle oil has lost its smell,
I tell the epicure wearing a tall,
White chef's hat and gray stubble
Of a beard,
Standing by the truffle products from
Italia.

Would you recommend another way to
Season my spaghetti? I continue.
And he stops still, stays silent
For an uncomfortably long time,
As if he is faced with having to tell
A secret of the kitchen.

He looks at me in a manner that suggests
We share a mutual love for the Fungus
Of The Heavens. And his careful reply
Comes metered in the way one might tell a
Secret: with suspense and a dash of drama,
Of panache. Have you tried the truffle salt?
He asked with a sly wink. I say no, but
I've read about it. Ah, then you must try it,
Says the epicure. But do know, he continues,
If you open this jar, the smell will travel far,
From here to there, pointing to where the Bordeaux
Stands stately, gleaming like rubies, five steps away.
Truffles are the only evidence there is a heaven,
I say before opening the jar,
Before releasing the gastronomic genie
Within.

And the effect is instantaneous, the smell travels at
Speeds unknown. I soon hear another shopper breathe in deep
Through the nose
As one might in a flower shop.
I see this salt sells itself, I say to
The epicure as I too take in a deep and heavenly whiff.
I say this
With a sly wink as I place a jar of truffle salt into my basket
and make my way on to the cheeses. Is that
Parmigiano Reggiano I smell?