Picture this. You’re sitting in front of a really nice looking sandwich: ham off the bone, a smear of hot English, maybe a few slices of cheddar, all on some good bread.

A waiter glides over and asks you in hushed tones if you’d like him to add some slices of fresh tomato. He brings a silver tray covered with a large cloche. Underneath are three juicy, ripe tomatoes. A few slices for $10 a kilo – a small supplement to really take your sandwich to the next level.

Now imagine the same scenario, only instead of tomatoes it’s a few thin shavings of truffle at more than $1,000 a kilo. Bonkers.

What's the difference between the truffle and the tomato? That tomato, so sweet it’s like eating dessert, is going to taste great. That truffle? Who knows? It's a crap shoot and the dice are loaded against you. Comparisons have been made between the scent of truffles and God's feet. In restaurants (in Australia, at least) the spectrum of sensual reward ranges from the scent of decidedly more secular feet to the scent of bugger-all. And for me, there's also more than a whiff of bullshit.

A showering of new season truffle just-snuffled-from-the-ground-by-a-specially-reared-hound can add a certain finger-snapping joie de vivre to many dishes. Risotto and eggs both benefit from a bit of musky stink. But what makes them so desirable that producers can charge up to $9,000 a lump? It's not an Hermes handbag or a vintage Eames recliner. It's a mushroom, and barely that. It's an underground fruiting body.

There are arguments for the cost, true. You’ve got to have the land to grow the trees, you have to buy the spores. You need special dogs to sniff them out. I’m pretty sure you need small children with tiny hands to wrap each one before they are shipped to those chefs preparing the special of the day: enclosing them in a delicious fleece bound by the tears of diners past who have forked out for the truffle supplement only to ask: “What the hell did I just pay for?”

And here's the thing. How many punters actually ask after they've just forked out an extra $50? How many people are willing to admit they don't get it? Far better to smile, pay the bill and leave with a chorus of "that was wonderful".

Most restaurant nerds think I’m crazy when I say I don’t think truffles are worth the hype or the expense. It’s like saying you’re religious in a room of atheists. The needle slips across the record and you see that incredulous look on people’s faces like they’re trying to work out if you’re joking or not. “Ha ha. Oh. You’re serious? Well, everyone’s entitled to their opinions.” Or worse, they try and convert you: “Just try this one and we’re sure you’ll admit you’ve been a jerk about hating on this magical heavenly fungus”.

To me, they are the epitome of conspicuous consumption. More power to you if you’re ordering the truffle supplement purely to show you can afford it – go wild, light up a cigar with a wad of 50s while you’re at it. Take a big breath of what you hope is that rich, fetid armpit musk.

But are you really sure you’re getting what you paid for? The argument is that sometimes you do – and I have come across a few that have smelled promising. But more often than not, they smell like the echo of promising. How many of these truffle enthusiasts are saying they like them just so they seem in on the joke?

(Don't even get me started on truffle oil, in most cases a completely synthetic product that has less to do with truffles dug out of the ground than vanilla essence has to do with vanilla beans – it's like buying knock-offs of the emperor's new clothes. I’ve eaten in a restaurant where the chef even put truffle products on the truffles to try and make them trufflier.)

First-world problems, I know. But hey, one percenters, why not spend your money on something with a guaranteed return?