I have eaten the Menu aux Truffes at Jamin in Paris when Joel Robuchon was in his pomp. I have lingered over the table at Georges Blanc in Vonnas and smacked my lips at the cooking of Bernard Loiseau when he was still aspiring to three Michelin stars. I have discussed the fine points of finer dishes with Raymond Blanc and Heston Blumenthal while eating them. I can still taste the zuppa di virtu and frittata of herbs and black truffle that I ate at La Bandiera at Civitella Casanova in Abruzzo and the gnocchi al ragu di capriolo at La Taverna de li Caldora at Pacentro not far from Sulmona. But I think that I can safely say that I did not enjoy the fabulous dishes at these fabulous places any more than I enjoyed these four courses at the station cafe at Villarosa.

It was the sheer improbability of it all that made it such a delight. I had noticed a reference to the Treno Museo at the station at Villarosa, a small town slap bang in the middle of Sicily, and with it the briefest of mentions of a cafe that served traditional Sicilian dishes. It didn't seem a lot to go on, but when, quite by accident, I saw it signposted as I was zooming along on my Vespa, I decided to drop in.

The station seemed completely deserted. Of the promised museum I could only find a few yellowing brochures pinned up on a notice board, but, exploring further, I came across two men seated at one of four plastic tables on the platform of the station.

'Any chance of something to eat?' I asked, expecting them to say no.

'Certainly,' said one. 'Where do you want to eat? Inside,' and he gestured vaguely down the platform. 'Or here?'

'Well, here, I think,' I said, and sat down at one of the plastic tables right on the platform.

He produced a paper tablecloth, a couple of glasses, and a knife, fork and spoon.

'What would you like? Antipasto typical from around here - salami, cheese, olives?'

'Very nice,' I said.

'And then for primo piatto there's spaghetti alla carbonara or penne with salsa di pomodoro, salsiccie e ulive.'

'Oh, that one. The second. More Sicilian,' I said.

He agreed that it was more Sicilian.

'And then some meat?'

'With a salad?' I said.

'With a salad. And to drink, wine and water?'

'A quarter of red,' I said, 'and water.'

He disappeared, and I was left looking out across the track to where the main Catania to Palermo motorway curved across the floor of the valley on stumpy pillars. The steep hillsides beyond were tanned and dull gold where the wheat was ripening, and spotted with clumps of dark trees. The tops of the hills were sharp, rocky and pointed. The sky was deep blue, with white clouds, the shadows of which moved over the land causing it to ripple and flow. My nostrils pricked at the rich, sweet savour and sound of onions being fried, and garlic and tomatoes. A small, scrawny cat watched me silently in anticipation.

The man appeared with a plate with three pieces of bread, which had been lightly toasted then covered with roughly chopped tomato, raw onion in olive oil, and dusted with oregano. The bread had a slight crunch to it and tasted of malted wheat and boiled milk. The tomato was light and fresh. The onion added a punchier seasoning, with a breath of oregano. Golly, it was good. The cat miaowed pitifully.

Then came the antipasto. It was, as the man had promised, ham, cheese and olives. But the ham was cured pancetta, with creamy fat and sweet, salty meat. The cheese was tomma primo sale, a local sheep's cheese studded with black peppercorns. It had the density of a pancake and a mild flavour to set beside the ham and the pungent olives.

The red wine in the little jug had the refreshing sourness of plums. It wasn't fancy or well bred, but it was right for the food on platform one at the station at Villarosa. The first cat was joined by two more, also howling pitifully.

Halfway through the pasta dish a train pulled in. It was a sleek, modern train. It only added to the surreality of the day. The pasta, on the other hand, was anchored firmly in the past. It was deep red, redder than a cardinal's hat. It gave a blast of flavour, as potent as the colour. There was nothing subtle about it, but it was satisfying. It was the sort of food that made you happy to be alive, to be in such a place.

The slender coil of sausage and slice of veal weren't quite so full frontal, but they were hefty and serious for all that. The sausage was juicy and salty. The veal was coarse-grained and brown. A mouthful of meat, a mouthful of salad, crunchy leaves with a touch of bitterness, a flash of vinegar, ease of oil, another mouthful of meat. The sparrows chittered overhead. The cats wept. I was at peace with the world.

There was a granita di limone to come, and a small cup of coffee. The granita was almost smooth, almost burning in its intensity, and chill. It swept my mouth clean of fats, oils and vinegars, and the coffee was fine and fierce.

The bill? Who cares how much this cost? I don't know, about £12 possibly. I would willingly have paid 10 times that.

· The Cafe, Stazione di Villarosa, Villarosa, Enna, Sicily