We were at brekkas, and the Conquistador Lord of the Undead started speaking to Señor C about his terrible body odor. There were a few eloquent sentences on the importance of laundry in perfect archaic Castilian- as well as details on how ever since Señor C brought our eggs to the table, an aroma of fetid socks wafted over our food. (They speak slower before they drink the caffeine, so I can begin to understand.)
Then I said "Isn't that the truffle oil on the eggs?"
And the conversation stopped abruptly. It was indeed the musky scent of truffles, but when your nasal passages are mostly rotting flesh, it is hard to distinguish between the two.
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