slightly, I picked five new vials from Le Nez du Vin each week to smell for thirty seconds each, twice a day, while trying to imprint their names and associations on my memory. Saffron, I would recite, holding the thimble-sized glass under each nostril. Saffron, saffron, saffron. As perfumers had coached me, I tried to associate it with images—an orange star—and describe its smell—soapy, metallic undertone, paprika-ish.
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