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A few days ago, there was a knock on my door. It was about 2 pm, and I wasn't expecting anyone. A rather large man in chef's whites filled the frame, his hat gripped tightly in his hand. I blinked and wondered why he'd knocked - luckily my Chinese fiance was home, and so I was able to find out. Over a cup of tea, it transpired that he worked in the restaurant downstairs, and he had a bone to pick with me. My apartment is two floors above a restaurant for students on the campus at which I teach in Tianjin, and it's a fairly popular one. During the semester, it's packed at meal times. Unfortunately, it seems that my eating habits were causing terrible problems. The students were complaining about his food. I was at a loss as to how this was my fault, until it was pointed out that they could smell the things I was cooking, and asking for them. My habit of opening a window to let things cool was exposing them to a range of odors that the chef couldn't match. Smell is so powerful that a whiff can evoke very powerful memories and emotions. For me, the smell of cooking is tied to some of my earliest memories - cakes baking, or things simmering on the stove. The smell of some things can take me to an exact point in my life, the emotional link is so strong. In China, the smell of food is everywhere, from the richness of soups boiling, through the spiciness of lamb kebabs grilling over open charcoal, to the sweet notes of fresh brewed tea. | 
