My strange aversion to the smell of some Asian restaurants dates back to my glamour days as an advertising exec in Manhattan, when I was barely eking out a living and my lifestyle was a lot more like Dick Whitman's than Don Draper's. I lived with three roommates in a shoebox over a Chinese restaurant. On Monday, the restaurant's owner would sell large boxes of mystery food for five dollars — which I could stretch into an entire week's worth of dinners. And while my roommates and I came down with food poisoning more than once, we still were there every Monday,... More >>>