Jumbo

Elephant garlic at the Farmers' Market.

Inside the hut the still air was as cold as the north wind that blew down the open alley outside. Wang's iron pot sat on the stove but there was no fire burning there, nor was there anywhere in sight any fuel from which a fire could be made. That fire was not a complete stranger to this dwelling was indicated by the paper on the single window. This has not been renewed in for many years and had been stained dark brown by smoke. In two or three places the paper was badly torn but these breaks did not add chill to the interior because there was no door across the entrance in any case...
On entering this hut our nostrils were assailed by an indescribable odour - organic, sharp, yet not foul. This was an odour we were to become familar with as time went on, the odour of raw garlic from the throats of the occupants of the house. When one came close enough to catch the air that one of these garlic eaters had just exhaled, the stench was overwhelming, stinging, rank, but diffused as it was in this cold room, it hung like some memory of decay.

William Hinton Fanshen, 1966