It was the smell that defined my childhood. Actually, not just one smell but a perfect three-chord progression of smells that would unfold over the course of a Sunday afternoon. First, the ominous scent of charcoal briquettes lit by twisted coils of newspaper. Then the clean burn of said briquettes heating themselves to an ashen gray. Finally, the dizzying, hypnotic aroma of sugary, soy sauce-soaked meat hitting the flames. I’d cruise my plastic tricycle through the clouds of meat smoke, soaking it in through my pores.