The smell of Campari is the full-on Proust-madeleine-y sense memory for me — my dad drank Campari. Every night when he came home from work he’d have a Campari on the rocks and a bowl of pistachios while he read the mail. Unfortunately, I’ve always loathed the taste of Campari. (And the pistachios would kill me.) So I can’t have the Anton-Ego-in-Ratatouille experience of tasting something and rocketing back to my wonderful, innocent, loving, nurturing childhood associations with that thing. But doing this Tablet magazine column on hosting a cocktail seder made me want to try Campari again.